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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/12622-0.txt b/12622-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a5a8129 --- /dev/null +++ b/12622-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11560 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12622 *** + +POEMS + + +BY + + +DENIS FLORENCE MAC CARTHY + + + +DUBLIN + +M. H. GILL AND SON, +50 UPPER SACKVILLE STREET + +1882 + + + + +M. H. GILL AND SON, PRINTERS, DUBLIN + + + + +Memorial to Denis Florence MacCarthy. + + +A Committee of friends and admirers of the late Denis Florence MacCarthy +has been formed for the purpose of perpetuating in a fitting manner the +memory of this distinguished Irish poet. Among the contributors to the +Memorial Fund are Cardinal Newman, Cardinal MacCabe, Cardinal MacClosky; +Most Rev. Dr. M'Gettigan, Most Rev. Dr. Croke, Most Rev. Dr. Butler, and +many of the Irish Clergy; Lord O'Hagan, the Marquis of Ripon, Archbishop +Trench, Judge O'Hagan, Sir. C. G. Duffy, Aubrey de Vere, Sir Samuel +Ferguson, and Dr. J. K. Ingram. + +Subscriptions will be received by the Lord Mayor, Mansion House, +Dublin; by Dr. James Brady, 38 Harcourt-st; Mr. W. L. Joynt, D. L., +43 Merrion-square; Rev. C. P. Meehan, SS. Michael and John's; or by +any Member of the Committee. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +This volume contains, besides the poems published in 1850 and 1857,[1] +the odes written for the centenary celebrations in honour of O'Connell +in 1875, and of Moore in 1879. To these are added several sonnets and +miscellaneous poems now first collected, and the episode of "Ferdiah" +translated from the 'Tain Bo Chuailgne.' + +Born in Dublin,[2] May 26th, 1817, my father, while still very young, +showed a decided taste for literature. The course of his boyish reading +is indicated in his "Lament." Some verses from his pen, headed "My +Wishes," appeared in the "Dublin Satirist," April 12th, 1834. This was, +as far as I can discover, the earliest of his writings published. To +the journal just mentioned he frequently contributed, both in prose and +verse, during the next two years. The following are some of the +titles:--"The Greenwood Hill;" "Songs of other Days" (Belshazzar's +Feast--Thoughts in the Holy Land--Thoughts of the Past); "Life," +"Death," "Fables" (The Zephyr and the Sensitive Plant--The +Tulip and the Rose--The Bee and the Rose); "Songs of Birds" +(Nightingale--Eagle--Phoenix--Fire-fly); "Songs of the Winds," &c. + +On October 14th, 1843, his first contribution ("Proclamation Songs," No. +1) appeared in the Dublin "Nation." "Here is a song by a new recruit," +wrote Mr., now Sir, Charles Gavan Duffy, "which we should give in our +leading columns if they were not preoccupied." In the next number I +find "The Battle of Clontarf," with this editorial note: "'Desmond' is +entitled to be enrolled in our national brigade." "A Dream" soon +follows; and at intervals, between this date and 1849--besides many +other poems--all the National songs and most of the Ballads included in +this volume. In April, 1847, "The Bell-Founder" and "The Foray of Con +O'Donnell" appeared in the "University Magazine," in which "Waiting for +the May," "The Bridal of the Year," and "The Voyage of Saint Brendan," +were subsequently published (in January and May, 1848). Meanwhile, in +1846, the year in which he was called to the bar, he edited the "Poets +and Dramatists of Ireland," with an introduction, which evinced +considerable reading, on the early religion and literature of the Irish +people. In the same year he also edited the "Book of Irish Ballads," to +which he prefixed an introduction on ballad poetry. This volume was +republished with additions and a preface in 1869. In 1853, the poems +afterwards published under the title of "Underglimpses" were chiefly +written.[3] + +The plays of Calderon--thoroughly national in form and matter--have met +with but scant appreciation from foreigners. Yet we find his genius +recognized in unexpected quarters, Goethe and Shelley uniting with +Augustus Schlegel and Archbishop Trench to pay him homage. My father +was, I think, first led to the study of Calderon by Shelley's glowing +eulogy of the poet ("Essays," vol. ii., p. 274, and elsewhere). The +first of his translations was published in 1853, the last twenty years +later. They consist[4] of fifteen complete plays, which I believe to be +the largest amount of translated verse by any one author, that has ever +appeared in English. Most of it is in the difficult assonant or vowel +rhyme, hardly ever previously attempted in our language. This may be a +fitting place to cite a few testimonies as to the execution of the work. +Longfellow, whom I have myself heard speak of the "Autos" in a way that +showed how deeply he had studied them in the original, wrote, in 1857: +"You are doing this work admirably, and seem to gain new strength and +sweetness as you go on. It seems as if Calderon himself were behind you +whispering and suggesting. And what better work could you do in your +bright hours or in your dark hours that just this, which seems to have +been put providentially into your hands." Again, in 1862: "Your new +work in the vast and flowery fields of Calderon is, I think, admirable, +and presents the old Spanish dramatist before the English reader in a +very attractive light. Particularly in the most poetical passages you +are excellent; as, for instance, in the fine description of the +gerfalcon and the heron in 'El Mayor Encanto.' I hope you mean to add +more and more, so as to make the translation as nearly complete as a +single life will permit. It seems rather appalling to undertake the +whole of so voluminous a writer; nevertheless, I hope you will do it. +Having proved that you can, perhaps you ought to do it. This may be +your appointed work. It is a noble one."[5] Ticknor ("History of +Spanish Literature," new edition, vol. iii. p. 461) writes thus: +"Calderon is a poet who, whenever he is translated, should have his very +excesses and extravagances, both in thought and manner, fully +reproduced, in order to give a faithful idea of what is grandest and +most distinctive in his genius. Mr. MacCarthy has done this, I +conceive, to a degree which I had previously supposed impossible. +Nothing, I think, in the English language will give us so true an +impression of what is most characteristic of the Spanish drama; perhaps +I ought to say, of what is most characteristic of Spanish poetry +generally." + +Another eminent Hispaniologist (Mr. C. F. Bradford, of Boston) has +spoken of the work in similar terms. His labours did not pass without +recognition from the great dramatist's countrymen. He was elected a +member of the Real Academia some years ago, and in 1881 this learned +body presented him with the medal struck in commemoration of Calderon's +bicentenary, "in token of their gratitude and their appreciation of his +translations of the great poet's works." + +In 1855, at the request of the Marchioness of Donegal, my father wrote +the ode which was recited at the inauguration of the statue of her son, +the Earl of Belfast. About the same time, his Lectures on Poetry were +delivered at the Catholic University at the desire of Cardinal Newman. +The Lectures on the Poets of Spain, and on the Dramatists of the +Sixteenth Century, were delivered a few years later. In 1862 he +published a curious bibliographical treatise on the "Memoires of the +Marquis de Villars." In 1864 the ill-health of some of his family his +leaving his home near Killiney Hill[6] to reside on the Continent. In +1872, "Shelley's Early Life" was published in London, where he had +settled, attracted by the facilities for research which its great +libraries offered. This biography gives an amusing account of the young +poet's visit to Dublin in 1812, and some new details of his adventures +and writings at this period. My father's admiration for Shelley was of +long standing. At the age of seventeen he wrote some lines to the +poet's memory, which appeared in the "Dublin Satirist" already +mentioned, and an elaborate review of his poetry in an early number of +the Nation. I have before alluded to Shelley's influence in directing +his attention to Calderon. The centenary odes in honour of O'Connell +and Moore were written, in 1875 and 1879, at the request of the +committees which had charge of these celebrations. He returned to +Ireland a few months before his death, which took place at Blackrock, +near Dublin, on April 7th,[7] in the present year. His nature was most +sensitive, but though it was his lot to suffer many sorrows, I never +heard a complaint or and unkind word from his lips. + +From what has been said it will be evident that this volume contains +only a part of his poetical works, it having been found impossible to +include the humorous pieces, parodies, and epigrams, without some +acquaintance with which an imperfect idea would be formed of his genius. +The same may be said of his numerous translations from various languages +(exclusive of Calderon's plays). Of those published in 1850, "The +Romance of Maleca," "Saint George's Knight," "The Christmas of the +Foreign Child," and others have been frequently reprinted. He has since +rendered from the Spanish poems by Juan de Pedraza, Antonio de Trueba, +Garcilaso de la Vega, Gongora and "Fernan Caballero," whom he visited +when in Spain shortly before her death, and whose prose story, "The Two +Muleteers," he has also translated. To these must be added, besides +several shorter ballads from Duran's Romancero General, "The Poem of the +Cid," "The Romance of Gayferos," and "The Infanta of France." The last +is a metrical tale of the fourteenth or fifteenth century, presenting +analogies with the "Thousand and One Nights," and probably drawn from an +Oriental source. His translations from the Latin, chiefly of mediaeval +hymns, are also numerous. + +In inserting the poem of "Ferdiah" I was influenced by its subject as +well as by the wish of friends. A few extracts appeared in a magazine +several years ago, and it was afterwards completed without any view to +publication. It follows the present Irish text[8] as closely as the +laws of metre will allow. Since these pages were in the printer's hands +Mr. Aubrey de Vere has given to the world his treatment of the same +theme,[9] adorning as usual all that he touches. As he well says: "It +is not in the form of translation that an ancient Irish tale of any +considerable length admits of being rendered in poetry. What is needed +is to select from the original such portions as are at once the most +essential to the story, and the most characteristic, reproducing them in +a condensed form, and taking care that the necessary additions bring out +the idea, and contain nothing that is not in the spirit of the +original." (Preface, p. vii.) The "Tale of Troy Divine" owes its form, +and we may never know how much of its tenderness and grace, to its +Alexandrian editor. However, the present version may, from its very +literalness, have and interest for some readers. + +Many of the earlier poems here collected have been admirably rendered +into French by the late M. Ernest de Chatelain.[10] The Moore Centenary +Ode has been translated into Latin by the Rev. M. J. Blacker, M. A. + +My thanks are due to the Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J., for his kind +assistance in preparing this book for the press, and to the Publishers +for the accuracy and speed with which it has been produced. + +I cannot let pass this opportunity of expressing my gratitude for the +self-sacrificing labours of the committee formed at the suggestion of +Mr. William Lane Joynt, D. L., to honour my father's memory, and for the +generous response his friends have made to their appeal.[11] + + +JOHN MAC CARTHY + +Blackrock, Dublin, August, 1882. + + +1. "Ballads, Poems, and Lyrics, Original and Translated:" Dublin, 1850. +"The Bell-Founder, and other Poems," "Underglimpses, and other Poems:" +London, 1857. A few pieces which seemed not to be of abiding interest +have been omitted. + +2. At 24 Lower Sackville-street. The house, with others adjoining, was +pulled down several years ago. Their site is now occupied by the +Imperial Hotel. + +3. The subjective view of nature developed in these Poems has been +censured as remote from human interest. Yet a critic of deep insight, +George Gilfillan, declares his special admiration for "the joyous, +sunny, lark-like carols on May, almost worthy of Shelley, and such +delicate, tender, Moore-like 'trifles' (shall I call them?) as 'All +Fool's Day.' The whole" he adds, "is full of a beautiful poetic spirit, +and rich resources both of fancy and language." I may be permitted to +transcribe here an extract from some unpublished comments by Sir William +Rowan Hamilton on another poem of the same class. His remarks are +interesting in themselves, as coming from one illustrious as a man of +science, and, at the same time, a true poet--a combination which may +hereafter become more frequent, since already in the vast regions of +space and time brought within human ken, imagination strives hard to +keep pace with established fact. In a manuscript volume now in the +Library of Trinity College, Dublin, he writes, under date, May, 1848:-- + +"The University Magazine for the present month contains a poem which +delights one, entitled 'The Bridal of the Year.' It is signed 'D. F. M. +C.,' as is also a shorter, but almost a sweeter piece immediately +following it, and headed, 'Summer Longings.'" + +Sir William goes through the whole poem, copying and criticising every +stanza, and concludes as follows:-- + +"After a very pretty ninth stanza respecting the 'fairy +phantoms' in the poet's 'glorious visions seen,' which the +author conceives to 'follow the poet's steps beneath the +morning's beam,' he burst into rapture at the approach of the +Bride herself-- + + "'Bright as are the planets seven-- + with her glances + She advances, + For her azure eyes are Heaven! + And her robes are sunbeams woven, + And her beauteous bridesmaids are + Hopes and wishes-- + Dreams delicious-- + Joys from some serener star, + And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar!' + +"Her eyes 'are' heaven, her robes 'are' sunbeams, and with these +physical aspects of the May, how well does the author of this ode (for +such, surely, we may term the poem, so rich in lyrical enthusiasm and +varied melody) conceive the combination as bridesmaids, as companions to +the bride; of those mental feelings, those new buddings of hope in the +heart which the season is fitted to awaken. The azure eyes glitter back +to ours, for the planets shine upon us from the lovely summer night; but +lovelier still are those 'dreams delicious, joys from some serener +star,' which at the same sweet season float down invisibly, and win +their entrance to our souls. The image of a bridal is happily and +naturally kept before us in the remaining stanzas of this poem, which +well deserve to be copied here, in continuation of these notes--the +former for its cheerfulness, the latter for its sweetness. I wish that +I knew the author, or even that I were acquainted with his name.--Since +ascertained to be D. F. MacCarthy." + +4. The following are the titles and dates of publication: In 1853, +"The Constant Prince," "The Secret in Words," "The Physician of his own +Honour," "Love after Death," "The Purgatory of St. Patrick," "The Scarf +and the Flower." In 1861, "The Greatest Enchantment," "The Sorceries of +Sin," "Devotion of the Cross." In 1867, "Belshazzar's Feast," "The +Divine Philothea" (with Essays from the German of Lorinser, and the +Spanish of Gonzales Pedroso). In 1870, "Chrysanthus and Daria, the Two +Lovers of Heaven." In 1873, "The Wonder-working Magician," "Life is a +Dream," "The Purgatory of St. Patrick" (a new translation entirely in +the assonant metre). Introductions and notes are added to all these +plays. Another, "Daybreak in Copacabana," was finished a few months +before his death, and has not been published. + +5. When the author of "Evangeline" visited Europe for the last time in +1869, they met in Italy. The sonnets at p. 174 [To Henry Wadsworth +Longfellow] refer to this occasion. + +6. The "Campo de Estio," described in the lines "Not Known." + +7. A fortnight after that of Longfellow. His attached friend and early +associate, Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, perished by assassination at Ottawa on +the same day and month fourteen years ago. + +8. Edited by his friend Br. W. K. Sullivan, President of Queen's +College, Cork, who, I may add, has in preparation a paper on the "Voyage +of St. Brendan," and on other ancient Irish accounts of voyages, of +which he finds an explanation in Keltic mythology. The paper will +appear in the Transactions of the American Geographical Society. + +9. "The Combat at the Ford" being Fragment III. of his "Legends of +Ireland's Heroic Age." London, 1882. + +10. In his "Beautes de la Poesie Anglaise, Rayons et Reflets," &c. + +11. The first meeting was held on April 15th, at the Mansion House, +Dublin, under the presidency of the Lord Mayor, the Right Hon. Charles +Dawson, M. P. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +Preface + + +BALLADS AND LYRICS. + +Waiting for the May [Summer Longings] +Devotion +The Seasons of the Heart +Kate of Kenmare +A Lament +The Bridal of the Year +The Vale of Shanganah +The Pillar Towers of Ireland +Over the Sea +Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird [Home Preference] +Love's Language +The Fireside +The Banished Spirit's Song +Remembrance +The Clan of MacCaura +The Window +Autumn Fears +Fatal Gifts +Sweet May +FERDIAH: an Episode from the Tain Bo Cuailgne +THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN +THE FORAY OF CON O'DONNELL +THE BELL-FOUNDER +ALICE AND UNA + + +NATIONAL POEMS AND SONGS. + +Advance! +Remonstrance +Ireland's Vow +A Dream +The Price of Freedom +The Voice and Pen +"Cease to do Evil--Learn to do Well" +The Living Land +The Dead Tribune +A Mystery + + +SONNETS. + +"The History of Dublin" +To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow +To Kenelm Henry Digby +To Ethna [Dedicatory Sonnet] + + +UNDERGLIMPSES. + +The Arraying +The Search +The Tidings +Welcome, May +The Meeting of the Flowers +The Progress of the Rose +The Bath of the Streams +The Flowers of the Tropics +The Year-King +The Awaking +The Resurrection +The First of the Angels +Spirit Voices + + +CENTENARY ODES. + +O'Connell (August 6th, 1875) +Moore (May 28th, 1879) + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + +The Spirit of the Snow +To the Bay of Dublin +To Ethna +"Not Known" +The Lay Missioner +The Spirit of the Ideal +Recollections +Dolores +Lost and Found +Spring Flowers from Ireland +To the Memory of Father Prout +Those Shandon Bells +Youth and Age +To June +Sunny Days in Winter +The Birth of the Spring +All Fool's Day +Darrynane +A Shamrock from the Irish Shore +Italian Myrtles +The Irish Emigrant's Mother [The Emigrants] +The Rain: a Song of Peace + + + + +Poems. + + + + +BALLADS AND LYRICS. + + + +WAITING FOR THE MAY. + + Ah! my heart is weary waiting, + Waiting for the May-- +Waiting for the pleasant rambles, +Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, + With the woodbine alternating, + Scent the dewy way. + Ah! my heart is weary waiting, + Waiting for the May. + + Ah! my heart is sick with longing, + Longing for the May-- +Longing to escape from study, +To the young face fair and ruddy, + And the thousand charms belonging + To the summer's day. + Ah! my heart is sick with longing, + Longing for the May. + + Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, + Sighing for the May-- +Sighing for their sure returning, +When the summer beams are burning, + Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, + All the winter lay. + Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, + Sighing for the May. + + Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing, + Throbbing for the May-- +Throbbing for the sea-side billows, +Or the water-wooing willows, + Where in laughing and in sobbing + Glide the streams away. + Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing, + Throbbing for the May. + + Waiting sad, dejected, weary, + Waiting for the May. +Spring goes by with wasted warnings, +Moon-lit evenings, sun-bright mornings; + Summer comes, yet dark and dreary + Life still ebbs away: + Man is ever weary, weary, + Waiting for the May! + + + +DEVOTION. + +When I wander by the ocean, +When I view its wild commotion, +Then the spirit of devotion + Cometh near; +And it fills my brain and bosom, + Like a fear! + +I fear its booming thunder, +Its terror and its wonder, +Its icy waves, that sunder + Heart from heart; +And the white host that lies under + Makes me start. + +Its clashing and its clangour +Proclaim the Godhead's anger-- +I shudder, and with langour + Turn away; +No joyance fills my bosom + For that day. + +When I wander through the valleys, +When the evening zephyr dallies, +And the light expiring rallies + In the stream, +That spirit comes and glads me, + Like a dream. + +The blue smoke upward curling, +The silver streamlet purling, +The meadow wildflowers furling + Their leaflets to repose: +All woo me from the world + And its woes. + +The evening bell that bringeth +A truce to toil outringeth, +No sweetest bird that singeth + Half so sweet, +Not even the lark that springeth + From my feet. + +Then see I God beside me, +The sheltering trees that hide me, +The mountains that divide me + From the sea: +All prove how kind a Father + He can be. + +Beneath the sweet moon shining +The cattle are reclining, +No murmur of repining + Soundeth sad: +All feel the present Godhead, + And are glad. + +With mute, unvoiced confessings, +To the Giver of all blessings +I kneel, and with caressings + Press the sod, +And thank my Lord and Father, + And my God. + + + +THE SEASONS OF THE HEART. + +The different hues that deck the earth +All in our bosoms have their birth; +'Tis not in the blue or sunny skies, +'Tis in the heart the summer lies! +The earth is bright if that be glad, +Dark is the earth if that be sad: +And thus I feel each weary day-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +In vain, upon her emerald car, +Comes Spring, "the maiden from afar," +And scatters o'er the woods and fields +The liberal gifts that nature yields; +In vain the buds begin to grow, +In vain the crocus gilds the snow; +I feel no joy though earth be gay-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +And when the Autumn crowns the year, +And ripened hangs the golden ear, +And luscious fruits of ruddy hue +The bending boughs are glancing through, +When yellow leaves from sheltered nooks +Come forth and try the mountain brooks, +Even then I feel, as there I stray-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +And when the winter comes at length, +With swaggering gait and giant strength, +And with his strong arms in a trice +Binds up the streams in chains of ice, +What need I sigh for pleasures gone, +The twilight eve, the rosy dawn? +My heart is changed as much as they-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +Even now, when Summer lends the scene +Its brightest gold, its purest green, +Whene'er I climb the mountain's breast, +With softest moss and heath-flowers dress'd, +When now I hear the breeze that stirs +The golden bells that deck the furze, +Alas! unprized they pass away-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +But when thou comest back once more, +Though dark clouds hang and loud winds roar, +And mists obscure the nearest hills, +And dark and turbid roll the rills, +Such pleasures then my breast shall know, +That summer's sun shall round me glow; +Then through the gloom shall gleam the May-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + + + +KATE OF KENMARE. + +Oh! many bright eyes full of goodness and gladness, + Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine, +And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadness, + Have I worshipped in silence and felt them divine! +But Hope in its gleamings, or Love in its dreamings, + Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair +As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,[12] + The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +It was all but a moment, her radiant existence, + Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me; +But time has not ages and earth has not distance + To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee! +Again am I straying where children are playing, + Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air, +Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee, + Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare! + +Thine arbutus beareth full many a cluster + Of white waxen blossoms like lilies in air; +But, oh! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre + No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear; +To that cheek softly flushing, thy lip brightly blushing, + Oh! what are the berries that bright tree doth bear? +Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty, + That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +O Beauty! some spell from kind Nature thou bearest, + Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye, +That hearts that are hardest, from forms that are fairest, + Receive such impressions as never can die! +The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy,[13] + Can stamp on the hard rock the shapes it doth wear; +Art cannot trace it, nor ages efface it: + And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +To him who far travels how sad is the feeling, + How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim, +When the scenes he most loves, like a river's soft stealing, + All fade as a vision and vanish from him! +Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that garland + That memory weaves of the bright and the fair; +While this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreathing, + And the rose of that garland is Kate of Kenmare! + +In lonely Lough Quinlan in summer's soft hours, + Fair islands are floating that move with the tide, +Which, sterile at first, are soon covered with flowers, + And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like glide. +Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awakened, + And the heart bears a harvest that late was so bare, +Of him who in roving finds objects of loving, + Like the fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +Sweet Kate of Kenmare! though I ne'er may behold thee, + Though the pride and the joy of another thou be, +Though strange lips may praise thee, and strange arms enfold thee, + A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on thee! +One feeling I cherish that never can perish-- + One talisman proof to the dark wizard care-- +The fervent and dutiful love of the Beautiful, + Of which thou art a type, gentle Kate of Kenmare! + + +12. The river of Kenmare. + +13. Near the town is the "Fairy Rock," on which the marks of several +feet are deeply impressed. It derives its name from the popular belief +that these are the work of fairies. + + + +A LAMENT. + +The dream is over, +The vision has flown; +Dead leaves are lying +Where roses have blown; +Wither'd and strown +Are the hopes I cherished,-- +All hath perished +But grief alone. + +My heart was a garden +Where fresh leaves grew +Flowers there were many, +And weeds a few; +Cold winds blew, +And the frosts came thither, +For flowers will wither, +And weeds renew! + +Youth's bright palace +Is overthrown, +With its diamond sceptre +And golden throne; +As a time-worn stone +Its turrets are humbled,-- +All hath crumbled +But grief alone! + +Wither, oh, whither, +Have fled away +The dreams and hopes +Of my early day? +Ruined and gray +Are the towers I builded; +And the beams that gilded-- +Ah! where are they? + +Once this world +Was fresh and bright, +With its golden noon +And its starry night; +Glad and light, +By mountain and river, +Have I bless'd the Giver +With hushed delight. + +These were the days +Of story and song, +When Hope had a meaning +And Faith was strong. +"Life will be long, +And lit with Love's gleamings;" +Such were my dreamings, +But, ah, how wrong! + +Youth's illusions, +One by one, +Have passed like clouds +That the sun looked on. +While morning shone, +How purple their fringes! +How ashy their tinges +When that was gone! + +Darkness that cometh +Ere morn has fled-- +Boughs that wither +Ere fruits are shed-- +Death bells instead +Of a bridal's pealings-- +Such are my feelings, +Since Hope is dead! + +Sad is the knowledge +That cometh with years-- +Bitter the tree +That is watered with tears; +Truth appears, +With his wise predictions, +Then vanish the fictions +Of boyhood's years. + +As fire-flies fade +When the nights are damp-- +As meteors are quenched +In a stagnant swamp-- +Thus Charlemagne's camp, +Where the Paladins rally, +And the Diamond Valley, +And Wonderful Lamp, + +And all the wonders +Of Ganges and Nile, +And Haroun's rambles, +And Crusoe's isle, +And Princes who smile +On the Genii's daughters +'Neath the Orient waters +Full many a mile, + +And all that the pen +Of Fancy can write +Must vanish +In manhood's misty light-- +Squire and knight, +And damosels' glances, +Sunny romances +So pure and bright! + +These have vanished, +And what remains?-- +Life's budding garlands +Have turned to chains; +Its beams and rains +Feed but docks and thistles, +And sorrow whistles +O'er desert plains! + +The dove will fly +From a ruined nest, +Love will not dwell +In a troubled breast; +The heart has no zest +To sweeten life's dolour-- +If Love, the Consoler, +Be not its guest! + +The dream is over, +The vision has flown; +Dead leaves are lying +Where roses have blown; +Wither'd and strown +Are the hopes I cherished,-- +All hath perished +But grief alone! + + + +THE BRIDAL OF THE YEAR. + + Yes! the Summer is returning, + Warmer, brighter beams are burning + Golden mornings, purple evenings, + Come to glad the world once more. + Nature from her long sojourning + In the Winter-House of Mourning, + With the light of hope outpeeping, + From those eyes that late were weeping, + Cometh dancing o'er the waters + To our distant shore. + On the boughs the birds are singing, + Never idle, + For the bridal + Goes the frolic breeze a-ringing + All the green bells on the branches, + Which the soul of man doth hear; + Music-shaken, + It doth waken, + Half in hope, and half in fear, +And dons its festal garments for the Bridal of the Year! + + For the Year is sempiternal, + Never wintry, never vernal, + Still the same through all the changes + That our wondering eyes behold. + Spring is but his time of wooing-- + Summer but the sweet renewing + Of the vows he utters yearly, + Ever fondly and sincerely, + To the young bride that he weddeth, + When to heaven departs the old, + For it is her fate to perish, + Having brought him, + In the Autumn, + Children for his heart to cherish. + Summer, like a human mother, + Dies in bringing forth her young; + Sorrow blinds him, + Winter finds him + Childless, too, their graves among, +Till May returns once more, and the bridal hymns are sung. + + Thrice the great Betroth'ed naming, + Thrice the mystic banns proclaiming, + February, March, and April, + Spread the tidings far and wide; + Thrice they questioned each new-comer, + "Know ye, why the sweet-faced Summer, + With her rich imperial dower, + Golden fruit and diamond flower, + And her pearly raindrop trinkets, + Should not be the green Earth's Bride?" + All things vocal spoke elated + (Nor the voiceless + Did rejoice less)-- + "Be the heavenly lovers mated!" + All the many murmuring voices + Of the music-breathing Spring, + Young birds twittering, + Streamlets glittering, + Insects on transparent wing-- +All hailed the Summer nuptials of their King! + + Now the rosy East gives warning, + 'Tis the wished-for nuptial morning. + Sweetest truant from Elysium, + Golden morning of the May! + All the guests are in their places-- + Lilies with pale, high-bred faces-- + Hawthorns in white wedding favours, + Scented with celestial savours-- + Daisies, like sweet country maidens, + Wear white scolloped frills to-day; + 'Neath her hat of straw the Peasant + Primrose sitteth, + Nor permitteth + Any of her kindred present, + Specially the milk-sweet cowslip, + E'er to leave the tranquil shade; + By the hedges, + Or the edges + Of some stream or grassy glade, +They look upon the scene half wistful, half afraid. + + Other guests, too, are invited, + From the alleys dimly lighted, + From the pestilential vapours + Of the over-peopled town-- + From the fever and the panic, + Comes the hard-worked, swarth mechanic-- + Comes the young wife pallor-stricken + At the cares that round her thicken-- + Comes the boy whose brow is wrinkled, + Ere his chin is clothed in down-- + And the foolish pleasure-seekers, + Nightly thinking + They are drinking + Life and joy from poisoned beakers, + Shudder at their midnight madness, + And the raving revel scorn: + All are treading + To the wedding + In the freshness of the morn, +And feel, perchance too late, the bliss of being born. + + And the Student leaves his poring, + And his venturous exploring + In the gold and gem-enfolding + Waters of the ancient lore-- + Seeking in its buried treasures, + Means for life's most common pleasures; + Neither vicious nor ambitious-- + Simple wants and simple wishes. + Ah! he finds the ancient learning + But the Spartan's iron ore; + Without value in an era + Far more golden + Than the olden-- + When the beautiful chimera, + Love, hath almost wholly faded + Even from the dreams of men. + From his prison + Newly risen-- + From his book-enchanted den-- +The stronger magic of the morning drives him forth again. + + And the Artist, too--the Gifted-- + He whose soul is heaven-ward lifted. + Till it drinketh inspiration + At the fountain of the skies; + He, within whose fond embraces + Start to life the marble graces; + Or, with God-like power presiding, + With the potent pencil gliding, + O'er the void chaotic canvas + Bids the fair creations rise! + And the quickened mass obeying + Heaves its mountains; + From its fountains + Sends the gentle streams a-straying + Through the vales, like Love's first feelings + Stealing o'er a maiden's heart; + The Creator-- + Imitator-- + From his easel forth doth start, +And from God's glorious Nature learns anew his Art! + + But who is this with tresses flowing, + Flashing eyes and forehead glowing, + From whose lips the thunder-music + Pealeth o'er the listening lands? + 'Tis the first and last of preachers-- + First and last of priestly teachers; + First and last of those appointed + In the ranks of the anointed; + With their songs like swords to sever + Tyranny and Falsehood's bands! + 'Tis the Poet--sum and total + Of the others, + With his brothers, + In his rich robes sacerdotal, + Singing with his golden psalter. + Comes he now to wed the twain-- + Truth and Beauty-- + Rest and Duty-- + Hope, and Fear, and Joy, and Pain, +Unite for weal or woe beneath the Poet's chain! + + And the shapes that follow after, + Some in tears and some in laughter, + Are they not the fairy phantoms + In his glorious vision seen? + Nymphs from shady forests wending, + Goddesses from heaven descending; + Three of Jove's divinest daughters, + Nine from Aganippe's waters; + And the passion-immolated, + Too fond-hearted Tyrian Queen, + Various shapes of one idea, + Memory-haunting, + Heart-enchanting, + Cythna, Genevieve, and Nea,[14] + Rosalind and all her sisters, + Born by Avon's sacred stream, + All the blooming + Shapes, illuming + The Eternal Pilgrim's dream,[15] +Follow the Poet's steps beneath the morning's beam. + + But the Bride--the Bride is coming! + Birds are singing, bees are humming; + Silent lakes amid the mountains + Look but cannot speak their mirth; + Streams go bounding in their gladness, + With a bacchanalian madness; + Trees bow down their heads in wonder, + Clouds of purple part asunder, + As the Maiden of the Morning + Leads the blushing Bride to Earth! + Bright as are the planets seven-- + With her glances + She advances, + For her azure eyes are Heaven! + And her robes are sunbeams woven, + And her beauteous bridesmaids are + Hopes and wishes-- + Dreams delicious-- + Joys from some serener star, +And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar. + + Now the mystic right is over-- + Blessings on the loved and lover! + Strike the tabours, clash the cymbals, + Let the notes of joy resound! + With the rosy apple-blossom, + Blushing like a maiden's bosom; + With all treasures from the meadows + Strew the consecrated ground; + Let the guests with vows fraternal + Pledge each other, + Sister, brother, + With the wine of Hope--the vernal + Vine-juice of Man's trustful heart: + Perseverance + And Forbearance, + Love and Labour, Song and Art, +Be this the cheerful creed wherewith the world may start. + + But whither the twain departed? + The United--the One-hearted-- + Whither from the bridal banquet + Have the Bride and Bridegroom flown? + Ah! their steps have led them quickly + Where the young leaves cluster thickly; + Blossomed boughs rain fragrance o'er them, + Greener grows the grass before them, + As they wander through the island, + Fond, delighted, and alone! + At their coming streams grow brighter, + Skies grow clearer, + Mountains nearer, + And the blue waves dancing lighter + From the far-off mighty ocean + Frolic on the glistening sand; + Jubilations, + Gratulations, + Breathe around, as hand-in-hand +They roam the Sutton's sea-washed shore, or soft Shanganah's strand. + + +14. Characters in Shelley, Coleridge, and Moore. + +15. "The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame + Over his living head, like Heaven, is bent, + An early but enduring monument." + Byron. (Shelley's "Adonais.") + + + +THE VALE OF SHANGANAH.[16] + +When I have knelt in the temple of Duty, +Worshipping honour and valour and beauty-- +When, like a brave man, in fearless resistance, +I have fought the good fight on the field of existence; +When a home I have won in the conflict of labour, +With truth for my armour and thought for my sabre, +Be that home a calm home where my old age may rally, +A home full of peace in this sweet pleasant valley! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna, + Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah! + +Fair is this isle--this dear child of the ocean-- +Nurtured with more than a mother's devotion; +For see! in what rich robes has nature arrayed her, +From the waves of the west to the cliffs of Ben Hader,[17] +By Glengariff's lone islets--Lough Lene's fairy water,[18] +So lovely was each, that then matchless I thought her; +But I feel, as I stray through each sweet-scented alley, +Less wild but more fair is this soft verdant valley! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + No wide-spreading prairie, no Indian savannah, + So dear to the eye as the Vale of Shanganah! + +How pleased, how delighted, the rapt eye reposes +On the picture of beauty this valley discloses, +From the margin of silver, whereon the blue water +Doth glance like the eyes of the ocean foam's daughter! +To where, with the red clouds of morning combining, +The tall "Golden Spears"[19] o'er the mountains are shining, +With the hue of their heather, as sunlight advances, +Like purple flags furled round the staffs of the lances! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + No lands far away by the swift Susquehannah, + So tranquil and fair as the Vale of Shanganah! + +But here, even here, the lone heart were benighted, +No beauty could reach it, if love did not light it; +'Tis this makes the earth, oh! what mortal could doubt it? +A garden with it, but a desert without it! +With the lov'd one, whose feelings instinctively teach her +That goodness of heart makes the beauty of feature. +How glad, through this vale, would I float down life's river, +Enjoying God's bounty, and blessing the Giver! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna, + Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah! + + +16. Lying to the south of Killiney-hill, near Dublin. + +17. Hill of Howth. + +18. Killarney. + +19. The Sugarloaf Mountains, county Wicklow, were called in Irish, "The +Spears of Gold." + + + +THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND. + +The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand +By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land; +In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime, +These gray old pillar temples, these conquerors of time! + +Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing and weak +The Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of the Greek, +And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires, +All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires! + +The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, +And the proud halls of the mighty and the calm homes of the just; +For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower, +Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower! + +But the grass grows again when in majesty and mirth, +On the wing of the spring, comes the Goddess of the Earth; +But for man in this world no springtide e'er returns +To the labours of his hands or the ashes of his urns! + +Two favourites hath Time--the pyramids of Nile, +And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle; +As the breeze o'er the seas, where the halcyon has its nest, +Thus Time o'er Egypt's tombs and the temples of the West! + +The names of their founders have vanished in the gloom, +Like the dry branch in the fire or the body in the tomb; +But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they cast-- +These temples of forgotten gods--these relics of the past! + +Around these walls have wandered the Briton and the Dane-- +The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of Spain-- +Phoenician and Milesian, and the plundering Norman Peers-- +And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of later years! + +How many different rites have these gray old temples known! +To the mind what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone! +What terror and what error, what gleams of love and truth, +Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth? + +Here blazed the sacred fire, and, when the sun was gone, +As a star from afar to the traveller it shone; +And the warm blood of the victim have these gray old temples drunk, +And the death-song of the druid and the matin of the monk. + +Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine, +And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine, +And the mitre shining brighter with its diamonds than the East, +And the crosier of the pontiff and the vestments of the priest. + +Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper bell, +Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's cell; +And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and good, +For the cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit stood. + +There may it stand for ever, while that symbol doth impart +To the mind one glorious vision, or one proud throb to the heart; +While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples last, +Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past! + + + +OVER THE SEA. + +Sad eyes! why are ye steadfastly gazing + Over the sea? +Is it the flock of the ocean-shepherd grazing + Like lambs on the lea?-- +Is it the dawn on the orient billows blazing + Allureth ye? + +Sad heart! why art thou tremblingly beating-- + What troubleth thee? +There where the waves from the fathomless water come greeting, + Wild with their glee! +Or rush from the rocks, like a routed battalion retreating, + Over the sea! + +Sad feet! why are ye constantly straying + Down by the sea? +There, where the winds in the sandy harbour are playing + Child-like and free, +What is the charm, whose potent enchantment obeying, + There chaineth ye? + +O! sweet is the dawn, and bright are the colours it glows in, + Yet not to me! +To the beauty of God's bright creation my bosom is frozen! + Nought can I see, +Since she has departed--the dear one, the loved one, the chosen, + Over the sea! + +Pleasant it was when the billows did struggle and wrestle, + Pleasant to see! +Pleasant to climb the tall cliffs where the sea birds nestle, + When near to thee! +Nought can I now behold but the track of thy vessel + Over the sea! + +Long as a Lapland winter, which no pleasant sunlight cheereth, + The summer shall be +Vainly shall autumn be gay, in the rich robes it weareth, + Vainly for me! +No joy can I feel till the prow of thy vessel appeareth + Over the sea! + +Sweeter than summer, which tenderly, motherly bringeth + Flowers to the bee; +Sweeter than autumn, which bounteously, lovingly flingeth + Fruits on the tree, +Shall be winter, when homeward returning, thy swift vessel wingeth + Over the sea! + + + +OH! HAD I THE WINGS OF A BIRD. + +Oh! had I the wings of a bird, + To soar through the blue, sunny sky, +By what breeze would my pinions be stirred? + To what beautiful land should I fly? +Would the gorgeous East allure, + With the light of its golden eyes, +Where the tall green palm, over isles of balm, + Waves with its feathery leaves? + Ah! no! no! no! + I heed not its tempting glare; + In vain should I roam from my island home, + For skies more fair! + +Should I seek a southern sea, + Italia's shore beside, +Where the clustering grape from tree to tree + Hangs in its rosy pride? +My truant heart, be still, + For I long have sighed to stray +Through the myrtle flowers of fair Italy's bowers. + By the shores of its southern bay. + But no! no! no! + Though bright be its sparkling seas, + I never would roam from my island home, + For charms like these! + +Should I seek that land so bright, + Where the Spanish maiden roves, +With a heart of love and an eye of light, + Through her native citron groves? +Oh! sweet would it be to rest + In the midst of the olive vales, +Where the orange blooms and the rose perfumes + The breath of the balmy gales! + But no! no! no!-- + Though sweet be its wooing air, + I never would roam from my island home, + To scenes though fair! + +Should I pass from pole to pole? + Should I seek the western skies, +Where the giant rivers roll, + And the mighty mountains rise? +Or those treacherous isles that lie + In the midst of the sunny deeps, +Where the cocoa stands on the glistening sands, + And the dread tornado sweeps! + Ah! no! no! no! + They have no charms for me; + I never would roam from my island home, + Though poor it be! + +Poor!--oh! 'tis rich in all + That flows from Nature's hand; +Rich in the emerald wall + That guards its emerald land! +Are Italy's fields more green? + Do they teem with a richer store +Than the bright green breast of the Isle of the West, + And its wild, luxuriant shore? + Ah! no! no! no! + Upon it heaven doth smile; + Oh, I never would roam from my native home, + My own dear isle! + + + +LOVE'S LANGUAGE. + +Need I say how much I love thee?-- + Need my weak words tell, +That I prize but heaven above thee, + Earth not half so well? +If this truth has failed to move thee, + Hope away must flee; +If thou dost not feel I love thee, + Vain my words would be! + +Need I say how long I've sought thee-- + Need my words declare, +Dearest, that I long have thought thee + Good and wise and fair? +If no sigh this truth has brought thee, + Woe, alas! to me; +Where thy own heart has not taught thee, + Vain my words would be! + +Need I say when others wooed thee, + How my breast did pine, +Lest some fond heart that pursued thee + Dearer were than mine? +If no pity then came to thee, + Mixed with love for me, +Vainly would my words imbue thee, + Vain my words would be! + +Love's best language is unspoken, + Yet how simply known; +Eloquent is every token, + Look, and touch, and tone. +If thy heart hath not awoken, + If not yet on thee +Love's sweet silent light hath broken, + Vain my words would be! + +Yet, in words of truest meaning, + Simple, fond, and few; +By the wild waves intervening, + Dearest, I love you! +Vain the hopes my heart is gleaning, + If, long since to thee, +My fond heart required unscreening, + Vain my words will be! + + + +THE FIRESIDE. + +I have tasted all life's pleasures, I have snatched at all its joys, +The dance's merry measures and the revel's festive noise; +Though wit flashed bright the live-long night, and flowed the ruby tide, +I sighed for thee, I sighed for thee, my own fireside! + +In boyhood's dreams I wandered far across the ocean's breast, +In search of some bright earthly star, some happy isle of rest; +I little thought the bliss I sought in roaming far and wide +Was sweetly centred all in thee, my own fireside! + +How sweet to turn at evening's close from all our cares away, +And end in calm, serene repose, the swiftly passing day! +The pleasant books, the smiling looks of sister or of bride, +All fairy ground doth make around one's own fireside! + +"My Lord" would never condescend to honour my poor hearth; +"His Grace" would scorn a host or friend of mere plebeian birth; +And yet the lords of human kind, whom man has deified, +For ever meet in converse sweet around my fireside! + +The poet sings his deathless songs, the sage his lore repeats, +The patriot tells his country's wrongs, the chief his warlike feats; +Though far away may be their clay, and gone their earthly pride, +Each god-like mind in books enshrined still haunts my fireside! + +Oh, let me glance a moment through the coming crowd of years, +Their triumphs or their failures, their sunshine or their tears; +How poor or great may be my fate, I care not what betide, +So peace and love but hallow thee, my own fireside! + +Still let me hold the vision close, and closer to my sight; +Still, still, in hopes elysian, let my spirit wing its flight; +Still let me dream, life's shadowy stream may yield from out its tide, +A mind at rest, a tranquil breast, a quiet fireside! + + + +THE BANISHED SPIRIT'S SONG.[20] + +Beautiful clime, where I've dwelt so long, +In mirth and music, in gladness and song! +Fairer than aught upon earth art thou-- +Beautiful clime, must I leave thee now? + +No more shall I join the circle bright +Of my sister nymphs, when they dance at night +In their grottos cool and their pearly halls, +When the glowworm hangs on the ivy walls! + +No more shall I glide o'er the waters blue, +With a crimson shell for my light canoe, +Or a rose-leaf plucked from the neighbouring trees, +Piloted o'er by the flower-fed breeze! + +Oh! must I leave those spicy gales, +Those purple hills and those flowery vales? +Where the earth is strewed with pansy and rose, +And the golden fruit of the orange grows! + +Oh! must I leave this region fair, +For a world of toil and a life of care? +In its dreary paths how long must I roam, +Far away from my fairy home? + +The song of birds and the hum of bees, +And the breath of flowers, are on the breeze; +The purple plum and the cone-like pear, +Drooping, hang in the rosy air! + +The fountains scatter their pearly rain +On the thirsty flowers and the ripening grain; +The insects sport in the sunny beam, +And the golden fish in the laughing stream. + +The Naiads dance by the river's edge, +On the low, soft moss and the bending sedge; +Wood-nymphs and satyrs and graceful fawns +Sport in the woods, on the grassy lawns! + +The slanting sunbeams tip with gold +The emerald leaves in the forests old-- +But I must away from this fairy scene, +Those leafy woods and those valleys green! + + +20. Written in early youth. + + + +REMEMBRANCE. + +With that pleasant smile thou wearest, +Thou art gazing on the fairest + Wonders of the earth and sea: +Do thou not, in all thy seeing, +Lose the mem'ry of one being + Who at home doth think of thee. + +In the capital of nations, +Sun of all earth's constellations, + Thou art roaming glad and free: +Do thou not, in all thy roving, +Lose the mem'ry of one loving + Heart at home that beats for thee. + +Strange eyes around thee glisten, +To a strange tongue thou dost listen, + Strangers bend the suppliant knee: +Do thou not, for all their seeming +Truth, forget the constant beaming + Eyes at home that watch for thee. + +Stately palaces surround thee, +Royal parks and gardens bound thee-- + Gardens of the 'Fleur de Lis': +Do thou not, for all their splendour, +Quite forget the humble, tender + Thoughts at home, that turn to thee. + +When, at length of absence weary, +When the year grows sad and dreary, + And an east wind sweeps the sea; +Ere the days of dark November, +Homeward turn, and then remember + Hearts at home that pine for thee! + + + +THE CLAN OF MAC CAURA.[21] + +Oh! bright are the names of the chieftains and sages, +That shine like the stars through the darkness of ages, +Whose deeds are inscribed on the pages of story, +There for ever to live in the sunshine of glory, +Heroes of history, phantoms of fable, +Charlemagne's champions, and Arthur's Round Table; +Oh! but they all a new lustre could borrow +From the glory that hangs round the name of MacCaura! + +Thy waves, Manzanares, wash many a shrine, +And proud are the castles that frown o'er the Rhine, +And stately the mansions whose pinnacles glance +Through the elms of Old England and vineyards of France; +Many have fallen, and many will fall, +Good men and brave men have dwelt in them all, +But as good and as brave men, in gladness and sorrow, +Have dwelt in the halls of the princely MacCaura! + +Montmorency, Medina, unheard was thy rank +By the dark-eyed Iberian and light-hearted Frank, +And your ancestors wandered, obscure and unknown, +By the smooth Guadalquiver and sunny Garonne. +Ere Venice had wedded the sea, or enrolled +The name of a Doge in her proud "Book of Gold;" +When her glory was all to come on like the morrow, +There were the chieftains and kings of the clan of MacCaura! + +Proud should thy heart beat, descendant of Heber,[22] +Lofty thy head as the shrines of the Guebre,[23] +Like them are the halls of thy forefathers shattered, +Like theirs is the wealth of thy palaces scattered. +Their fire is extinguished--thy banner long furled-- +But how proud were ye both in the dawn of the world! +And should both fade away, oh! what heart would not sorrow +O'er the towers of the Guebre--the name of MacCaura! + +What a moment of glory to cherish and dream on, +When far o'er the sea came the ships of Heremon, +With Heber, and Ir, and the Spanish patricians, +To free Inisfail from the spells of magicians.[24] +Oh! reason had these for their quaking and pallor, +For what magic can equal the strong sword of valour? +Better than spells are the axe and the arrow, +When wielded or flung by the hand of MacCaura! + +From that hour a MacCaura had reigned in his pride +O'er Desmond's green valleys and rivers so wide, +From thy waters, Lismore, to the torrents and rills +That are leaping for ever down Brandon's brown hills; +The billows of Bantry, the meadows of Bear, +The wilds of Evaugh, and the groves of Glancare, +From the Shannon's soft shores to the banks of the Barrow, +All owned the proud sway of the princely MacCaura! + +In the house of Miodchuart,[25] by princes surrounded, +How noble his step when the trumpet was sounded, +And his clansmen bore proudly his broad shield before him, +And hung it on high in that bright palace o'er him; +On the left of the monarch the chieftain was seated, +And happy was he whom his proud glances greeted: +'Mid monarchs and chiefs at the great Fes of Tara, +Oh! none was to rival the princely MacCaura! + +To the halls of the Red Branch,[26] when the conquest was o'er, +The champions their rich spoils of victory bore, +And the sword of the Briton, the shield of the Dane, +Flashed bright as the sun on the walls of Eamhain; +There Dathy and Niall bore trophies of war, +From the peaks of the Alps and the waves of Loire; +But no knight ever bore from the hills of Ivaragh +The breast-plate or axe of a conquered MacCaura! + +In chasing the red deer what step was the fleetest?-- +In singing the love song what voice was the sweetest?-- +What breast was the foremost in courting the danger?-- +What door was the widest to shelter the stranger?-- +In friendship the truest, in battle the bravest, +In revel the gayest, in council the gravest?-- +A hunter to-day and a victor to-morrow?-- +Oh! who but a chief of the princely MacCaura! + +But, oh! proud MacCaura, what anguish to touch on +The fatal stain of thy princely escutcheon; +In thy story's bright garden the one spot of bleakness, +Through ages of valour the one hour of weakness! +Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred and royal-- +Thou to kneel to the Norman and swear to be loyal! +Oh! a long night of horror, and outrage, and sorrow, +Have we wept for thy treason, base Diarmid MacCaura![27] + +Oh! why ere you thus to the foreigner pandered, +Did you not bravely call round your emerald standard, +The chiefs of your house of Lough Lene and Clan Awley +O'Donogh, MacPatrick, O'Driscoll, MacAwley, +O'Sullivan More, from the towers of Dunkerron, +And O'Mahon, the chieftain of green Ardinterran? +As the sling sends the stone or the bent bow the arrow, +Every chief would have come at the call of MacCaura. + +Soon, soon didst thou pay for that error in woe, +Thy life to the Butler, thy crown to the foe, +Thy castles dismantled, and strewn on the sod, +And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys of God! +No more in thy halls is the wayfarer fed, +Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft heather spread, +Nor the "clairsech's" sweet notes, now in mirth, now in sorrow, +All, all have gone by, but the name of MacCaura! + +MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by, +But its name cannot fade, and its fame cannot die, +Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves, shine +Around no green forests or castles of thine-- +Though the shrines that you founded no incense doth hallow, +Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Allo, +One treasure thou keepest, one hope for the morrow-- +True hearts yet beat of the clan of MacCaura! + + +21. MacCarthaig, or MacCarthy. + +22. The eldest son of Milesius, King of Spain, in the legendary history +of Ireland. + +23. The Round Towers. + +24. The Tuatha Dedannans, so called, says Keating, from their skill in +necromancy, for which some were so famous as to be called gods. + +25. See Keating's "History of Ireland" and Petrie's "Tara." + +26. In the palace of Emania, in Ulster. + +27. Diarmid MacCaura, King of Desmond, and Daniel O'Brien, King of +Thomond, were the first of the Irish princes to swear fealty to Henry +II. + + + +THE WINDOW. + +At my window, late and early, + In the sunshine and the rain, +When the jocund beams of morning +Come to wake me from my napping, +With their golden fingers tapping + At my window pane: +From my troubled slumbers flitting, + From the dreamings fond and vain, +From the fever intermitting, +Up I start, and take my sitting + At my window pane:-- + +Through the morning, through the noontide, + Fettered by a diamond chain, +Through the early hours of evening, +When the stars begin to tremble, +As their shining ranks assemble + O'er the azure plain: +When the thousand lamps are blazing + Through the street and lane-- +Mimic stars of man's upraising-- +Still I linger, fondly gazing + From my window pane! + +For, amid the crowds slow passing, + Surging like the main, +Like a sunbeam among shadows, +Through the storm-swept cloudy masses, +Sometimes one bright being passes + 'Neath my window pane: +Thus a moment's joy I borrow + From a day of pain. +See, she comes! but--bitter sorrow! +Not until the slow to-morrow, + Will she come again. + + + +AUTUMN FEARS. + +The weary, dreary, dripping rain, + From morn till night, from night till morn, +Along the hills and o'er the plain, + Strikes down the green and yellow corn; +The flood lies deep upon the ground, + No ripening heat the cold sun yields, +And rank and rotting lies around + The glory of the summer fields! + +How full of fears, how racked with pain, + How torn with care the heart must be, +Of him who sees his golden grain + Laid prostrate thus o'er lawn and lea; +For all that nature doth desire, + All that the shivering mortal shields, +The Christmas fare, the winter's fire, + All comes from out the summer fields. + +I too have strayed in pleasing toil + Along youth's and fertile meads; +I too within Hope's genial soil + Have, trusting, placed Love's golden seeds; +I too have feared the chilling dew, + The heavy rain when thunder pealed, +Lest Fate might blight the flower that grew + For me in Hope's green summer field. + +Ah! who can paint that beauteous flower, + Thus nourished by celestial dew, +Thus growing fairer, hour by hour, + Delighting more, the more it grew; +Bright'ning, not burdening the ground, + Nor proud with inward worth concealed, +But scattering all its fragrance round + Its own sweet sphere, its summer field! + +At morn the gentle flower awoke, + And raised its happy face to God; +At evening, when the starlight broke, + It bending sought the dewy sod; +And thus at morn, and thus at even, + In fragrant sighs its heart revealed, +Thus seeking heaven, and making heaven + Within its own sweet summer field! + +Oh! joy beyond all human joy! + Oh! bliss beyond all earthly bliss! +If pitying Fate will not destroy + My hopes of such a flower as this! +How happy, fond, and heaven-possest, + My heart will be to tend and shield, +And guard upon my grateful breast + The pride of that sweet summer field! + + + +FATAL GIFTS. + +The poet's heart is a fatal boon, + And fatal his wondrous eye, + And the delicate ear, + So quick to hear, + Over the earth and sky, +Creation's mystic tune! +Soon, soon, but not too soon, +Does that ear grow deaf and that eye grow dim, +And nature becometh a waste for him, + Whom, born for another sphere, + Misery hath shipwrecked here! + +For what availeth his sensitive heart + For the struggle and stormy strife + That the mariner-man, + Since the world began + Has braved on the sea of life? +With fearful wonder his eye doth start, +When it should be fixed on the outspread chart +That pointeth the way to golden shores-- +Rent are his sails and broken his oars, + And he sinks without hope or plan, + With his floating caravan. + +And love, that should be his strength and stay, + Becometh his bane full soon, + Like flowers that are born + Of the beams at morn, + But die of their heat ere noon. +Far better the heart were the sterile clay +Where the shining sands of the desert play, +And where never the perishing flow'ret gleams +Than the heart that is fed with its wither'd dreams, + And whose love is repelled with scorn, + Like the bee by the rose's thorn. + + + +SWEET MAY. + +The summer is come!--the summer is come! + With its flowers and its branches green, +Where the young birds chirp on the blossoming boughs, + And the sunlight struggles between: +And, like children, over the earth and sky + The flowers and the light clouds play; +But never before to my heart or eye + Came there ever so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + +Oh! many a time have I wandered out + In the youth of the opening year, +When Nature's face was fair to my eye, + And her voice was sweet to my ear! +When I numbered the daisies, so few and shy, + That I met in my lonely way; +But never before to my heart or eye, + Came there ever so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + +If the flowers delayed, or the beams were cold, + Or the blossoming trees were bare, +I had but to look in the poet's book, + For the summer is always there! +But the sunny page I now put by, + And joy in the darkest day! +For never before to my heart or eye, + Came there ever so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + +For, ah! the belov'ed at length has come, + Like the breath of May from afar; +And my heart is lit with gentle eyes, + As the heavens by the evening star. +'Tis this that brightens the darkest sky, + And lengthens the faintest ray, +And makes me feel that to the heart or eye + There was never so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + + + +FERDIAH;[28] +OR, THE FIGHT AT THE FORD. + +An Episode from the Ancient Irish Epic Romance, "The Tain Bo Cuailgne; +or, the Cattle Prey of Cuailgne." + +["The 'Tain Bo Cuailgne'" says the late Professor O'Curry, "is to Irish +what the Argonautic Expedition, or the Seven against Thebes, is to +Grecian history." For an account of this, perhaps the earliest epic +romance of Western Europe, see the Professor's "Lectures on the +Manuscript Materials of Irish History." + +The Fight of Cuchullin with Ferdiah took place in the modern county of +Louth, at the ford of Ardee, which still preserves the name of the +departed champion, Ardee being the softened form of 'Ath Ferdiah,' or +Ferdiah's Ford. + +The circumstances under which this famous combat took place are thus +succinctly mentioned by O'Curry, in his description of the Tain Bo +Cuailgne:-- + +"Cuchulainn confronts the invaders of his province, demands single +combat, and conjures his opponents by the laws of Irish chivalry (the +'Fir comhlainn') not to advance farther until they had conquered him. +This demand, in accordance with the Irish laws of warfare, is granted; +and then the whole contest is resolved into a succession of single +combats, in each of which Cuchulainn was victorious."--"Lectures," p. +37. + +The original Irish text of this episode, with a literal translation, on +which the present metrical version is founded, may be consulted in the +appendix to the second series of the Lectures by O'Curry, vol. ii., p. +413. + +The date assigned to the famous expedition of the Tain Bo Cuailgne, and +consequently to the episode which forms the subject of the present poem, +is the close of the century immediately preceding the commencement of +the Christian era. This will account for the complete absence of all +Christian allusions, so remarkable throughout the poem: an additional +proof, if that were required, of its extreme antiquity.] + +Cuchullin the great chief had pitched his tent, +From Samhain[29] time, till now 'twas budding spring, +Fast by the Ford, and held the land at bay. +All Erin, save the fragment that he led, +His sword held back, nor dared a man to cross +The rippling Ford without Cuchullin's leave: +Chief after chief had fallen in the attempt; +And now the men of Erin through the night +Asked in dismay, "Oh! who shall be the next +To face the northern hound[30] and free the Ford?" +"Let it now be," with one accord they cried, +"Ferdiah, son of Daman Dare's son, +Of Domnann[31] lord, and all its warrior men." +The chiefs thus fated now to meet as foes +In early life were friends--had both been taught +All feats of arms by the same skilful hands +In Scatha's[32] school beneath the peaks of Skye, +Which still preserve Cuchullin's glorious name. +One feat of arms alone Cuchullin knew +Ferdiah knew not of--the fatal cast-- +The dread expanding force of the gaebulg[33] +Flung from the foot resistless on the foe. +But, on the other hand, Ferdiah wore +A skin-protecting suit of flashing steel[34] +Surpassing all in Erin known till then. +At length the council closed, and to the chief +Heralds were sent to tell them that the choice +That night had fallen on him; but he within +His tent retired, received them not, nor went. +For well he knew the purport of their suit +Was this--that he should fight beside the Ford +His former fellow-pupil and his friend. +Then Mave,[35] the queen, her powerful druids sent, +Armed not alone with satire's scorpion stings, +But with the magic power even on the face, +By their malevolent taunts and biting sneers, +To raise three blistering blots[36] that typified +Disgrace, dishonour, and a coward's shame, +Which with their mortal venom him would kill, +Or on the hour, or ere nine days had sped, +If he declined the combat, and refused +Upon the instant to come forth with them, +And so, for honour's sake, Ferdiah came. +For he preferred to die a warrior's death, +Pierced to the heart by a proud foeman's spear, +Than by the serpent sting of slanderous tongues-- +By satire and abuse, and foul reproach. +When to the court he came, where the great queen +Held revel, he received all due respect: +The sweet intoxicating cup went round, +And soon Ferdiah felt the power of wine. +Great were the rich rewards then promised him +For going forth to battle with the Hound: +A chariot worth seven cumals four times told,[37] +The outfit then of twelve well-chosen men +Made of more colours than the rainbow knows, +His own broad plains of level fair Magh Aie,[38] +To him and his assured till time was o'er +Free of all tribute, without fee or fine; +The golden brooch, too, from the queen's own cloak, +And, above all, fair Finavair[39] for wife. +But doubtful was Ferdiah of the queen, +And half excited by the fiery cup, +And half distrustful, knowing wily Mave, +He asked for more assurance of her faith. +Then she to him, in rhythmic rise of song, +And he in measured ranns to her replied. + +MAVE.[40] + +A rich reward of golden rings + I'll give to thee, Ferdiah fair, +The forest, where the wild bird sings, + the broad green plain, with me thou'lt share; +Thy children and thy children's seed, + for ever, until time is o'er, +Shall be from every service freed + within the sea-surrounding shore. +Oh, Daman's son, Ferdiah fair, + oh, champion of the wounds renowned, +For thou a charm`ed life dost bear, + since ever by the victories crowned, +Oh! why the proffered gifts decline, + oh! why reject the nobler fame, +Which many an arm less brave than thine, + which many a heart less bold, would claim? + +FERDIAH. + +Without a guarantee, O queen! + without assurance made most sure, +Thy grassy plains, thy woodlands green, + thy golden rings are but a lure. +The champion's place is not for me + until thou art most firmly bound, +For dreadful will the battle be + between me and Emania's Hound. +For such is Chuland's name, + O queen, and such is Chuland's nature, too, +The noble Hound, the Hound of fame, + the noble heart to dare and do, +The fearful fangs that never yield, + the agile spring so swift and light: +Ah! dread the fortune of the field! + ah! fierce will be the impending fight! + +MAVE. + +I'll give a champion's guarantee, + and with thee here a compact make, +That in the assemblies thou shalt be + no longer bound thy place to take; +Rich silver-bitted bridles fair-- + for such each noble neck demands-- +And gallant steeds that paw the air, + shall all be given into thy hands. +For thou, Ferdiah, art indeed + a truly brave and valorous man, +The first of all the chiefs I lead, + the foremost hero in the van; +My chosen champion now thou art, + my dearest friend henceforth thou'lt be, +The very closest to my heart, + from every toll and tribute free. + +FERDIAH. + +Without securities, I say, + united with thy royal word, +I will not go, when breaks the day, + to seek the combat at the Ford. +That contest, while time runs its course, + and fame records what ne'er should die, +Shall live for ever in full force, + until the judgment day draws nigh. +I will not go, though death ensue, + though thou through some demoniac rite, +Even as thy druid sorcerers do, + canst kill me with thy words of might: +I will not go the Ford to free, + until, O queen! thou here dost swear +By sun and moon,[41] by land and sea, + by all the powers of earth and air. + +MAVE. + +Thou shalt have all; do thou decide. + I'll give thee an unbounded claim; +Until thy doubts are satisfied, + oh! bind us by each sacred name;-- +Bind us upon the hands of kings, + upon the hands of princes bind; +Bind us by every act that brings + assurance to the doubting mind. +Ask what thou wilt, and do not fear + that what thou wouldst cannot be wrought; +Ask what thou wilt, there standeth here + one who will ne'er refuse thee aught; +Ask what thou wilt, thy wildest wish + be certain thou shalt have this night, +For well I know that thou wilt kill this + man who meets thee in the fight. + +FERDIAH. + +I will have six securities, + no less will I accept from thee; +Be some our country's deities, + the lords of earth, and sky, and sea; +Be some thy dearest ones, O queen! + the darlings of thy heart and eye, +Before my fatal fall is seen + to-morrow, when the hosts draw nigh. +Do this, and though I lose my fame-- + do this, and though my life I lose, +The glorious championship I'll claim, + the glorious risk will not refuse. +On, on, in equal strength and might + shall I advance, O queenly Mave, +And Uladh's hero meet in fight, + and battle with Cuchullin brave. + +MAVE. + +Though Domnal[42] it should be, the sun, + swift-speeding in his fiery car; +Though Niaman's[43] dread name be one, + the consort of the God of War; +These, even these I'll give, though hard + to lure them from their realms serene, +For though they list to lowliest bard,[44] + they may be deaf unto a queen. +Bind it on Morand, if thou wilt, + to make assurance doubly sure; +Bind it, nor dream that dream of guilt + that such a pact will not endure. +By spirits of the wave and wind, + by every spell, by every art, +Bind Carpri Min of Manand, + bind my sons, the darlings of my heart. + +FERDIAH. + +O Mave! with venom of deceit + that adder tongue of thine o'erflows, +Nor is thy temper over-sweet, + as well thine earlier consort knows. +Thou'rt truly worthy of thy fame + for boastful speech and lust of power, +And well dost thou deserve thy name-- + the Brachail of Rathcroghan's tower.[45] +Thy words are fair and soft, O queen! + but still I crave one further proof-- +Give me the scarf of silken sheen, + give me the speckled satin woof, +Give from thy cloak's empurpled fold + the golden brooch so fair to see, +And when the glorious gift I hold, + for ever am I bound to thee. + +MAVE. + +Oh! art thou not my chosen chief, + my foremost champion, sure to win, +My tower, my fortress of relief, + to whom I give this twisted pin? +These, and a thousand gifts more rare, + the treasures of the earth and sea, +Jewels a queen herself might wear, + my grateful hands will give to thee. +And when at length beneath thy sword + the Hound of Ulster shall lie low, +When thou hast ope'd the long-locked Ford, + and let the unguarded water flow, +Then shall I give my daughter's hand, + then my own child shall be thy bride-- +She, the fair daughter of the land + where western Elgga's[46] waters glide. + +And thus did Mave Ferdiah bind to fight +Six chosen champions on the morrow morn, +Or combat with Cuchullin all alone, +Whichever might to him the easier seem. +And he, by the gods' names and by her sons, +Bound her the promise she had made to keep, +The rich reward to pay to him in full, +If by his hand Cuchullin should be slain. +For Fergus, young Cuchullin's early friend, +The steeds that night were harnessed, and he flew +Swift in his chariot to the hero's tent. +"Glad am I at thy coming, O my friend!" +Cuchullin said: "My pupil, I accept +With joy thy welcome," Fergus quick replied: +"But what I come for is to give thee news +Of him who here will fight thee in the morn." +"I listen," said Cuchullin, "do thou speak." +"Thine own companion is it, thine own peer, +Thy rival in all daring feats of arms, +Ferdiah, son of Daman, Dare's son, +Of Domnand lord and all its warrior men." +"Be sure of this," Cuchullin made reply, +"That never wish of mine it could have been +A friend should thus come forth with me to fight." +"It therefore doth behove thee now, my son," +Fergus replied, "to be upon thy guard, +Prepared at every point; for not like those +Who hitherto have come to fight with thee +Upon the 'Tain Bo Cuailgne,' is the chief, +Ferdiah, son of Daman, Dare's son." +"Here I have been," Cuchullin proudly said, +"From Samhain up to Imbule--from the first +Of winter days even to the first of spring-- +Holding the four great provinces in check +That make up Erin, not one foot have I +Yielded to any man in all that time, +Nor even to him shall I a foot give way." +And thus the parley went: first Fergus spoke, +Cuchullin then to him in turn replied: + +FERGUS. + +Time is it, O Cuchullin, to arise, + Time for the fearful combat to prepare; +For hither with the anger in his eyes, + To fight thee comes Ferdiah called the Fair. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Here I have been, nor has the task been light, + Holding all Erin's warriors at bay: +No foot of ground have I in recreant flight + Yielded to any man or shunned the fray. + +FERGUS. + +When roused to rage, resistless in his might, + Fearless the man is, for his sword ne'er fails: +A skin-protecting coat of armour bright + He wears, 'gainst which no valour e'er prevails. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Oh! brave in arms, my Fergus, say not so, + Urge not thy story further on the night:-- +On any friend, or facing any foe + I never was behind him in the fight. + +FERGUS. + +Brave is the man, I say, in battles fierce, + Him it will not be easy to subdue, +Swords cut him not, nor can the sharp spear pierce, + Strong as a hundred men to dare and do. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Well, should we chance to meet beside the Ford, + I and this chief whose valour ne'er has failed, +Story shall tell the fortune of each sword, + And who succumbed and who it was prevailed. + +FERGUS. + +Ah! liefer than a royal recompense + To me it were, O champion of the sword, +That thine it were to carry eastward hence + The proud Ferdiah's purple from the Ford. + +CUCHULLIN. + +I pledge my word, I vow, and not in vain, + Though in the combat we may be as one, +That it is I who shall the victory gain + Over the son of Daman, Dare's son. + +FERGUS. + +'Twas I that gathered eastward all the bands, + Revenging the foul wrong upon me wrought +By the Ultonians. Hither from their lands + The chiefs, the battle-warriors I have brought. + +CUCHULLIN. + +If Conor's royal strength had not decayed, + Hard would have been the strife on either side: +Mave of the Plain of Champions had not made + A foray then of so much boastful pride. + +FERGUS. + +To-day awaits thy hand a greater deed, + To battle with Ferdiah, Daman's son. +Hard, bloody weapons with sharp points thou'lt need, + Cuchullin, ere the victory be won. + +Then Fergus to the court and camp went back, +While to his people and his tent repaired +Ferdiah, and he told them of the pact +Made that same night between him and the queen. + +The dwellers in Ferdiah's tent that night +Were scant of comfort, a foreboding fear +Fell on their spirits and their hearts weighed down; +Because they knew in whatsoever fight +The mighty chiefs, the hundred-slaying two +Met face to face, that one of them must fall, +Or both, perhaps, or if but only one, +Certain were they it would their own lord be, +Since on the Tain Bo Cuailgne, it was plain +That no one with Cuchullin could contend. + + Nor was their chief less troubled; but at first +The fumes of the late revel overpowered +His senses, and he slept a heavy sleep. +Later he woke, the intoxicating steam +Had left his brain, and now in sober calm +All the anxieties of the impending fight +Pressed on his soul and made him grave.[47] He rose +From off his couch, and bade his charioteer +Harness his pawing horses to the car. +The boy would fain persuade his lord to stay, +Because he loved his master, and he felt +He went but to his death; but he repelled +The youth's advice, and spoke to him these words-- +"Oh! cease, my servant. I will not be turned +By any youth from what I have resolved." +And thus in speech and answer spoke the two-- + +FERDIAH. + +Let us go to this challenge, + Let us fly to the Ford, +When the raven shall croak + O'er my blood-dripping sword. +Oh, woe for Cuchullin! + That sword will be red; +Oh, woe! for to-morrow + The hero lies dead. + +CHARIOTEER. + +Thy words are not gentle, + Yet rest where thou art, +'Twill be dreadful to meet, + And distressful to part. +The champion of Ulster! + Oh! think what a foe! +In that meeting there's grief, + In that journey there's woe! + +FERDIAH. + +Thy counsel is craven, + Thy caution I slight, +No brave-hearted champion + Should shrink from the fight. +The blood I inherit + Doth prompt me to do-- +Let us go to the challenge, + To the Ford let us go! + +Then were the horses of Ferdiah yoked +Unto the chariot, and he rode full speed +Unto the Ford of battle, and the day +Began to break, and all the east grew red. + + Beside the Ford he halted. "Good, my friend," +He said unto his servant, "Spread for me +The skins and cushions of my chariot here +Beneath me, that I may a full deep sleep +Enjoy before the hour of fight arrives; +For in the latter portion of the night +I slept not, thinking of the fight to come." +Unharnessed were the horses, and the boy +Spread out the cushions and the chariot's skins, +And heavy sleep fell on Ferdiah's lids. + + Now of Cuchullin will I speak. He rose +Not until day with all its light had come, +In order that the men of Erin ne'er +Should say of him that it was fear or dread +That made him from a restless couch arise. +When in the fulness of its light at length +Shone forth the day, he bade his charioteer +Harness his horses and his chariot yoke. +"Harness my horses, good, my servant," said +Cuchullin, "and my chariot yoke for me, +For lo! an early-rising champion comes +To meet us here beside the Ford to-day-- +Ferdiah, son of Daman, Dare's son." +"My lord, the steeds are ready to thy hand; +Thy chariot stands here yoked, do thou step in; +The noble car will not disgrace its lord." + + Into the chariot, then, the dextrous, bold, +Red-sworded, battle-winning hero sprang +Cuchullin, son of Sualtam, at a bound. +Invisible Bocanachs and Bananachs, +And Geniti Glindi[48] shouted round the car, +And demons of the earth and of the air. +For thus the Tuatha de Danaans used +By sorceries to raise those fearful cries +Around him, that the terror and the fear +Of him should be the greater, as he swept +On with his staff of spirits to the war. + + Soon was it when Ferdiah's charioteer +Heard the approaching clamour and the shout, +The rattle and the clatter, and the roar, +The whistle, and the thunder, and the tramp, +The clanking discord of the missive shields, +The clang of swords, the hissing sound of spears, +The tinkling of the helmet, the sharp crash +Of armour and of arms, the straining ropes, +The dangling bucklers, the resounding wheels, +The creaking chariot, and the proud approach +Of the triumphant champion of the Ford. + Clutching his master's robe, the charioteer +Cried out, "Ferdiah, rise! for lo, thy foes +Are on thee!" Then the Spirit of Insight fell +Prophetic on the youth, and thus he sang. + +CHARIOTEER. + +I hear the rushing of a car, + Near and more near its proud wheels run +A chariot for the God of War + Bursts--as from clouds the sun! +Over Bregg-Ross it speeds along, + Hark! its thunders peal afar! +Oh! its steeds are swift and strong, + And the Victories guide that car. + +The Hound of Ulster shaketh the reins, + And white with foam is each courser's mouth; +The Hawk of Ulster swoops o'er the plains + To his quarry here in the south. +Like wintry storm that warrior's form, + Slaughter and Death beside him rush; +The groaning air is dark and warm, + And the low clouds bleed and blush.[49] + +Oh, woe to him that is here on the hill, + Who is here on the hillock awaiting the Hound; +Last year it was in a vision of ill + I saw this sight and I heard this sound. +Methought Emania's Hound drew nigh, + Methought the Hound of Battle drew near, +I heard his steps and I saw his eye, + And again I see and I hear. + +Then answer made Ferdiah in this wise: +"Why dost thou chafe me, talking of this man? +For thou hast never ceased to sing his praise +Since from his home he came. Thou surely art +Not without wage for this: but nathless know +Ailill and Mave have both foretold--by me +This man shall fall, shall fall for a reward +Just as the deed: This day he shall be slain, +For it is fated that I free the Ford. +'Tis time for the relief."--And thus they spake: + +FERDIAH. + +Yes, it is time for the relief; + Be silent then, nor speak his praise, +For prophecy forebodes this chief + Shall pass not the predestined days; +Does fate for this forego its claim, + That Cuailgne's champion here should come +In all his pride and pomp of fame?-- + Be sure he comes but to his doom. + +CHARIOTEER. + +If Cuailgne's champion here I see + In all his pride and pomp of fame, +He little heeds the prophecy, + So swift his course, so straight his aim. +Towards us he flies, as flies the gleam + Of lightning, or as waters flow +From some high cliff o'er which the stream + Drops in the foaming depths below. + +FERDIAH. + +Highly rewarded thou must be, + For much reward thou sure canst claim, +Else why with such persistency + Thus sing his praises since he came? +And now that he approacheth nigh, + And now that he doth draw more near, +It seems it is to glorify + And not to attack him thou art here. + +Not long Ferdiah's charioteer had gazed +With wondering look on the majestic car, +When, as with thunder-speed it wheeled more near, +He saw its whole construction and its plan: +A fair, flesh-seeking, four-peaked front it had, +And for its body a magnificent creit +Fashioned for war, in which the hero stood +Full-armed and brandishing a mighty spear, +While o'er his head a green pavilion hung; +Beneath, two fleetly-bounding, large-eared, fierce, +Whale-bellied, lively-hearted, high-flanked, proud, +Slender-legged, wide-hoofed, broad-buttocked, prancing steeds, +Exulting leaped and bore the car along: +Under one yoke, the broad-backed steed was gray, +Under the other, black the long-maned steed. + +Like to a hawk swooping from off a cliff, +Upon a day of harsh and biting wind, +Or like a spring gust on a wild March morn +Rushing resistless o'er a level plain, +Or like the fleetness of a stag when first +'Tis started by the hounds in its first field-- +So swept the horses of Cuchullin's car, +Bounding as if o'er fiery flags they flew, +Making the earth to shake beneath their tread, +And tremble 'neath the fleetness of their speed. + +At length, upon the north side of the Ford, +Cuchullin stopped. Upon the southern bank +Ferdiah stood, and thus addressed the chief: +"Glad am I, O Cuchullin, thou hast come." +"Up to this day," Cuchullin made reply, +"Thy welcome would by me have been received +As coming from a friend, but not to-day. +Besides, 'twere fitter that I welcomed thee, +Than that to me thou shouldst the welcome give; +'Tis I that should go forth to fight with thee, +Not thou to me, because before thee are +My women and my children, and my youths, +My herds and flocks, my horses and my steeds." + Ferdiah, half in scorn, spake then these words-- +And then Cuchullin answered in his turn. +"Good, O Cuchullin, what untoward fate +Has brought thee here to measure swords with me? +For when we two with Scatha lived, in Skye, +With Uatha, and with Aife, thou wert then +My page to spread my couch for me at night, +Or tie my spears together for the chase." + "True hast thou spoken," said Cuchullin; "yes, +I then was young, thy junior, and I did +For thee the services thou dost recall; +A different story shall be told of us +From this day forth, for on this day I feel +Earth holds no champion that I dare not fight!" +And thus invectives bitter, sharp and cold, +Between the two were uttered, and first spake +Ferdiah, then alternate each with each. + +FERDIAH. + +What has brought thee here, O Hound, + To encounter a strong foe? +O'er the trappings of thy steeds + Crimson-red thy blood shall flow. +Woe is in thy journey, woe; + Let the cunning leech prepare; +Shouldst thou ever reach thy home, + Thou shalt need his care. + +CUCHULLIN. + +I, who here with warriors fought, + With the lordly chiefs of hosts, +With a hundred men at once, + Little heed thy empty boasts. +Thee beneath the wave to place, + Thee to strike and thee to slay +In the first path of our fight + Am I here to-day. + +FERDIAH. + +Thy reproach in me behold, + For 'tis I that deed will do, +'Tis of me that Fame shall tell + He the Ultonian's champion slew. +Yes, in spite of all their hosts, + Yes, in spite of all their prayers: +So it shall long be told + That the loss was theirs. + +CUCHULLIN. + +How, then, shall we first engage-- + Is it with the hard-edged sword? +In what order shall we go + To the battle of the Ford? +Shall we in our chariots ride? + Shall we wield the bloody spear? +How am I to hew thee down + With thy proud hosts here? + +FERDIAH. + +Ere the setting of the sun, + Ere shall come the darksome night, +If again thou must be told, + With a mountain thou shalt fight: +Thee the Ultonians will extol, + Thence impetuous wilt thou grow, +Oh! their grief, when through their ranks + Will thy spectre go! + +CUCHULLIN. + +Thou hast fallen in danger's gap, + Yes, thy end of life is nigh; +Sharp spears shall be plied on thee + Fairly 'neath the open sky: +Pompous thou wilt be and vain + Till the time for talk is o'er, +From this day a battle-chief + Thou shalt be no more. + +FERDIAH. + +Cease thy boastings, for the world + Sure no braggart hath like thee: +Thou art not the chosen chief-- + Thou hast not the champion's fee:-- +Without action, without force, + Thou art but a giggling page; +Yes, thou trembler, with thy heart + Like a bird's in cage. + +CUCHULLIN. + +When we were with Scatha once, + It but seemed our valour's due +That we should together fight, + Both as one our sports pursue. +Thou wert then my dearest friend, + Comrade, kinsman, thou wert all,-- +Ah, how sad, if by my hand + Thou at last should fall. + +FERDIAH. + +Much of honour shalt thou lose, + We may then mere words forego:-- +On a stake thy head shall be + Ere the early cock shall crow. +O Cuchullin, Cuailgne's pride, + Grief and madness round thee twine; +I will do thee every ill, + For the fault is thine. + +"Good, O Ferdiah, 'twas no knightly act," +Cuchullin said, "to have come meanly here, +To combat and to fight with an old friend, +Through instigation of the wily Mave, +Through intermeddling of Ailill the king; +To none of those who here before thee came +Was victory given, for they all fell by me:-- +Thou too shalt win nor victory, nor increase +Of fame in this encounter thou dost dare, +For as they fell, so thou by me shall fall." +Thus was he saying and he spake these words, +To which Ferdiah listened, not unmoved. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Come not to me, O champion of the host, + Come not to me, Ferdiah, as my foe, +For though it is thy fate to suffer most, + All, all must feel the universal woe. + +Come not to me defying what is right, + Come not to me, thy life is in my power; +Ah, the dread issue of each former fight + Why hast thou not remembered ere this hour? + +Art thou not bright with diverse dainty arms, + A purple girdle and a coat of mail? +And yet to win the maid of peerless charms + For whom thou dar'st the battle thou shalt fail. + +Yes, Finavair, the daughter of the queen, + The faultless form, the gold without alloy, +The glorious virgin of majestic mien, + Shalt not be thine, Ferdiah, to enjoy. + +No, the great prize shall not by thee be won,-- + A fatal lure, a false, false light is she, +To numbers promised and yet given to none, + And wounding many as she now wounds thee. + +Break not thy vow, never with me to fight, + Break not the bond that once thy young heart gave, +Break not the truth we both so loved to plight, + Come not to me, O champion bold and brave! + +To fifty champions by her smiles made slaves + The maid was proffered, and not slight the gift; +By me they have been sent into their graves, + From me they met destruction sure and swift. + +Though vauntingly Ferbaeth my arms defied, + He of a house of heroes prince and peer, +Short was the time until I tamed his pride + With one swift cast of my true battle-spear. + +Srub Daire's valour too had swift decline: + Hundreds of women's secrets he possessed, +Great at one time was his renown as thine, + In cloth of gold, not silver, was he dressed. + +Though 'twas to me the woman was betrothed + On whom the chiefs of the fair province smile, +To shed thy blood my spirit would have loathed + East, west, or north, or south of all the isle. + +"Good, O Ferdiah," still continuing, spoke +Cuchullin, "thus it is that thou shouldst not +Have come with me to combat and to fight; +For when we were with Scatha, long ago, +With Uatha and with Aife, we were wont +To go together to each battle-field, +To every combat and to every fight, +Through every forest, every wilderness, +Through every darksome path and dangerous way." +And thus he said and thus he spake these words: + +CUCHULLIN. + +We were heart-comrades then,-- +Comrades in crowds of men, +In the same bed have lain, + When slumber sought us; +In countries far and near, +Hurling the battle spear, +Chasing the forest deer, + As Scatha taught us. + + "O Cuchullin of the beautiful feats," +Replied Ferdiah, "though we have pursued +Together thus the arts of war and peace, +And though the bonds of friendship that we swore +Thou hast recalled to mind, from me shall come +Thy first of wounds. O Hound, remember not +Our old companionship, which shall not now +Avail thee, shall avail thee not, O Hound!" +"Too long here have we waited in this way," +Again resumed Ferdiah. "To what arms, +Say then, Cuchullin, shall we now resort?" +"The choice of arms is thine until the night," +Cuchullin made reply; "for so it chanced +That thou shouldst be the first to reach the Ford." +"Dost thou at all remember," then rejoined +Ferdiah, "those swift missive spears with which +We practised oft with Scatha in our youth, +With Uatha and with Aife, and our friends?" +"Them I, indeed, remember well," replied +Cuchullin. "If thou dost remember well, +Let us to them resort," Ferdiah said. +Their missive weapons then on either side +They both resorted to. Upon their arms +They braced two emblematic missive shields, +And their eight well-turned-handled lances took, +Their eight quill-javelins also, and their eight +White ivory-hilted swords, and their eight spears, +Sharp, ivory-hafted, with hard points of steel. +Betwixt the twain the darts went to and fro, +Like bees upon the wing on a fine day; +No cast was made that was not sure to hit. +From morn to nigh mid-day the missiles flew, +Till on the bosses of the brazen shields +Their points were blunted, but though true the aim, +And excellent the shooting, the defence +Was so complete that not a wound was given, +And neither champion drew the other's blood. +"'Tis time to drop these feats," Ferdiah said, +"For not by such as these shall we decide +Our battle here this day." "Let us desist," +Cuchullin answered, "if the time hath come." +They ceased, and threw their missile shafts aside +Into the hands of their two charioteers. +"What weapons, O Cuchullin, shall we now +Resort to?" said Ferdiah. "Unto thee," +Cuchullin answered, "doth belong the choice +Of arms until the night, because thou wert +The first that reached the Ford." "Well, let us, then," +Ferdiah said, "resume our straight, smooth, hard, +Well-polished spears with their hard flaxen strings." +"Let us resume them, then," Cuchullin said. +They braced upon their arms two stouter shields, +And then resorted to their straight, smooth, hard, +Well-polished spears, with their hard flaxen strings.[50] +'Twas now mid-day, and thus 'till eventide +They shot against each other with the spears. +But though the guard was good on either side, +The shooting was so perfect that the blood +Ran from the wounds of each, by each made red. +"Let us now, O Cuchullin," interposed +Ferdiah, "for the present time desist." +"Let us indeed desist," Cuchullin said +"If, O Ferdiah, the fit time hath come." +They ceased, and laid their gory weapons down, +Their faithful charioteers' attendant care. +Each to the other gently then approached, +Each round the other's neck his hands entwined, +And gave him three fond kisses on the cheek. +Their horses fed in the same field that night, +Their charioteers were warmed at the same fire, +Their charioteers beneath their bodies spread +Green rushes, and beneath the heads the down +Of wounded men's soft pillows. Then the skilled +Professors of the art of healing came +With herbs, which to the scars of all their wounds +They put. Of every herb and healing plant +That to Cuchullin's wound they did apply, +He would an equal portion westward send +Over the Ford, Ferdiah's wounds to heal. +So that the men of Erin could not say, +If it should chance Ferdiah fell by him, +That it was through superior skill and care +Cuchullin was enabled him to slay. + + Of each kind, too, of palatable food +And sweet, intoxicating, pleasant drink, +The men of Erin to Ferdiah sent, +He a fair moiety across the Ford +Sent northward to Cuchullin, where he lay; +Because his own purveyors far surpassed +In numbers those the Ulster chief retained: +For all the federate hosts of Erin were +Purveyors to Ferdiah, with the hope +That he would beat Cuchullin from the Ford. +The Bregians[51] only were Cuchullin's friends, +His sole purveyors, and their wont it was +To come to him and talk to him at night. + + That night they rested there. Next morn they rose +And to the Ford of battle early came. +"What weapons shall we use to-day?" inquired +Cuchullin. "Until night the choice is thine," +Replied Ferdiah; "for the choice of arms +Has hitherto been mine." "Then let us take +Our great broad spears to-day," Cuchullin said, +"And may the thrusting bring us to an end +Sooner than yesterday's less powerful darts. +Let then our charioteers our horses yoke +Beneath our chariots, so that we to-day +May from our horses and our chariots fight." +Ferdiah answered: "Let it so be done." +And then they braced their two broad, full-firm shields +Upon their arms that day, and in their hands +That day they took their great broad-bladed spears. + And thus from early morn to evening's close +They smote each other with such dread effect +That both were pierced, and both made red with gore,-- +Such wounds, such hideous clefts in either breast +Lay open to the back, that if the birds +Cared ever through men's wounded frames to pass, +They might have passed that day, and with them borne +Pieces of quivering flesh into the air. +When evening came, their very steeds were tired, +Their charioteers depressed, and they themselves +Worn out--even they the champions bold and brave. +"Let us from this, Ferdiah, now desist," +Cuchullin said; "for see, our charioteers +Droop, and our very horses flag and fail, +And when fatigued they yield, so well may we." +And further thus he spoke, persuading rest:-- + +CUCHULLIN. + +Not with the obstinate rage and spite +With which Fomorian pirates fight +Let us, since now has fallen the night, + Continue thus our feud; +In brief abeyance it may rest, +Now that a calm comes o'er each breast:-- +When with new light the world is blest, + Be it again renewed." + +"Let us desist, indeed," Ferdiah said, +"If the fit time hath come."--And so they ceased. +From them they threw their arms into the hands +Of their two charioteers. Each of them came +Forward to meet the other. Each his hands +Put round the other's neck, and thus embraced, +Gave to him three fond kisses on the cheek. +Their horses fed in the same field that night; +Their charioteers were warmed by the same fire. +Their charioteers beneath their bodies spread +Green rushes, and beneath their heads the down +Of wounded men's soft pillows. Then the skilled +Professors of the art of healing came +To tend them and to cure them through the night. +But they for all their skill could do no more, +So numerous and so dangerous were the wounds, +The cuts, and clefts, and scars so large and deep, +But to apply to them the potent charms +Of witchcraft, incantations, and barb spells, +As sorcerers use, to stanch the blood and stay +The life that else would through the wounds escape:-- +Of every charm of witchcraft, every spell, +Of every incantation that was used +To heal Cuchullin's wounds, a full fair half +Over the Ford was westward sent to heal +Ferdiah's hurts: of every sort of food, +And sweet, intoxicating, pleasant drink +The men of Erin to Ferdiah sent, +He a fair moiety across the Ford +Sent northward to Cuchullin where he lay, +Because his own purveyors far surpassed +In number those the Ulster chief retained. +For all the federate hosts of Erin were +Purveyors to Ferdiah, with the hope +That he would beat Cuchullin from the Ford. +The Bregians only were Cuchullin's friends-- +His sole purveyors--and their wont it was +To come to him, and talk with him at night. + +They rested there that night. Next morn they rose, +And to the Ford of battle forward came. +That day a great, ill-favoured, lowering cloud +Upon Ferdiah's face Cuchullin saw. +"Badly," said he, "dost thou appear this day, +Ferdiah, for thy hair has duskier grown +This day, and a dull stupour dims thine eyes, +And thine own face and form, and what thou wert +In outward seeming have deserted thee." +"'Tis not through fear of thee that I am so," +Ferdiah said, "for Erin doth not hold +This day a champion I could not subdue." +And thus betwixt the twain this speech arose, +And thus Cuchullin mourned and he replied: + +CUCHULLIN. + +O Ferdiah, if it be thou, +Certain am I that on thy brow +The blush should burn and the shame should rise, +Degraded man whom the gods despise, +Here at a woman's bidding to wend +To fight thy fellow-pupil and friend. + +FERDIAH. + +O Cuchullin, O valiant man, +Inflicter of wounds since the war began, +O true champion, a man must come +To the fated spot of his final home,-- +To the sod predestined by fate's decree +His resting-place and his grave to be. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Finavair, the daughter of Mave, +Although thou art her willing slave, +Not for thy long-felt love has been +Promised to thee by the wily queen,-- +No, it was but to test thy might +That thou wert lured into this fatal fight. + +FERDIAH. + +My might was tested long ago +In many a battle, as thou dost know, +Long, O Hound of the gentle rule, +Since we fought together in Scatha's school: +Never a braver man have I seen, +Never, I feel, hath a braver been. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Thou art the cause of what has been done, +O son of Daman, Dare's son, +Of all that has happened thou art the cause, +Whom hither a woman's counsel draws-- +Whom hither a wily woman doth send +To measure swords with thy earliest friend. + +FERDIAH. + +If I forsook the field, O Hound, +If I had turned from the battleground-- +This battleground without fight with thee, +Hard, oh, hard had it gone with me; +Bad should my name and fame have been +With King Ailill and with Mave the queen. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Though Mave of Croghan had given me food, +Even from her lips, though all of good +That the heart can wish or wealth can give +Were offered to me, there does not live +A king or queen on the earth for whom +I would do thee ill or provoke thy doom. + +FERDIAH. + +O Cuchullin, thou victor in fight, +Of battle triumphs the foremost knight; +To what result the fight may lead, +'Twas Mave alone that prompted the deed; +Not thine the fault, not thine the blame, +Take thou the victory and the fame. + +CUCHULLIN. + +My faithful heart is a clot of blood, +A feud thus forced cannot end in good; +Oh, woe to him who is here to be slain! +Oh, grief to him who his life will gain! +For feats of valour no strength have I +To fight the fight where my friend must die. + +"A truce to these invectives," then broke in +Ferdiah; "we far other work this day +Have yet to do than rail with woman's words. +Say, what shall be our arms in this day's fight?" +"Till night," Cuchullin said, "the choice is thine, +For yester morn the choice was given to me." +"Let us," Ferdiah answered, "then resort +Unto our heavy, sharp, hard-smiting swords, +For we are nearer to the end to-day +Of this our fight, by hewing, than we were +On yesterday by thrusting of the spears." +"So let us do, indeed," Cuchullin said. +Then on their arms two long great shields they took, +And in their hands their sharp, hard-smiting swords. +Each hewed the other with such furious strokes +That pieces larger than an infant's head +Of four weeks' old were cut from out the thighs +And great broad shoulder-blades of each brave chief. +And thus they persevered from early morn +Till evening's close in hewing with the swords. +"Let us desist," at length Ferdiah said. +"Let us indeed desist, if the fit time +Hath come," Cuchullin said; and so they ceased. +From them they cast their arms into the hands +Of their two charioteers; and though that morn +Their meeting was of two high-spirited men, +Their separation, now that night had come, +Was of two men dispirited and sad. +Their horses were not in one field that night, +Their charioteers were warmed not at one fire. +That night they rested there, and in the morn +Ferdiah early rose and sought alone +The Ford of battle, for he knew that day +Would end the fight, and that the hour drew nigh +When one or both of them should surely fall. + +Then was it for the first time he put on +His battle suit of battle and of fight, +Before Cuchullin came unto the Ford. +That battle suit of battle and of fight +Was this: His apron of white silk, with fringe +Of spangled gold around it, he put on +Next his white skin. A leather apron then, +Well sewn, upon his body's lower part +He placed, and over it a mighty stone +As large as any mill-stone was secured. +His firm, deep, iron apron then he braced +Over the mighty stone--an apron made +Of iron purified from every dross-- +Such dread had he that day of the Gaebulg. +His crested helm of battle on his head +He last put on--a helmet all ablaze +From forty gems in each compartment set, +Cruan, and crystal, carbuncles of fire, +And brilliant rubies of the Eastern world. +In his right hand a mighty spear he seized, +Destructive, sharply-pointed, straight and strong:-- +On his left side his sword of battle swung, +Curved, with its hilt and pommel of red gold. +Upon the slope of his broad back he placed +His dazzling shield, around whose margin rose +Fifty huge bosses, each of such a size +That on it might a full-grown hog recline, +Exclusive of the larger central boss +That raised its prominent round of pure red gold. + +Full many noble, varied, wondrous feats +Ferdiah on that day displayed, which he +Had never learned at any tutor's hand, +From Uatha, or from Aife, or from her, +Scatha, his early nurse in lonely Skye:-- +But which were all invented by himself +That day, to bring about Cuchullin's fall. + +Cuchullin to the Ford approached and saw +The many noble, varied, wondrous feats +Ferdiah on that day displayed on high. +"O Laegh, my friend," Cuchullin thus addressed +His charioteer, "I see the wondrous feats +Ferdiah doth display on high to-day: +All these on me in turn shall soon be tried, +And therefore note, that if it so should chance +I shall be first to yield, be sure to taunt, +Excite, revile me, and reproach me so, +That wrath and rage in me may rise the more:-- +If I prevail, then let thy words be praise, +Laud me, congratulate me, do thy best +To stimulate my courage to its height." +"It shall be done, Cuchullin," Laegh replied. + +Then was it that Cuchullin first assumed +His battle suit of battle: then he tried +Full many, various, noble, wondrous feats +He never learned from any tutor's hands, +From Uatha, or from Aife, or from her, +Scatha, his early nurse in lonely Skye. +Ferdiah saw these various feats, and knew +Against himself they soon would be applied. + +"Say, O Ferdiah, to what arms shall we +Resort in this day's fight?" Cuchullin said. +Ferdiah answered, "Unto thee belongs +The choice of weapons now until the night." +"Let us then try the Ford Feat on this day," +Replied Cuchullin. "Let us then, indeed," +Rejoined Ferdiah, with a careless air +Consenting, though in truth it was to him +The cause of grief to say so, since he knew +That in the Ford Feat lay Cuchullin's strength, +And that he never failed to overthrow +Champion or hero in that last appeal. + +Great was the feat that was performed that day +In and beside the Ford: the mighty two, +The two great heroes, warriors, champions, chiefs +Of western Europe--the two open hands +Laden with gifts of the north-western world,-- +The two beloved pillars that upheld +The valour of the Gaels--the two strong keys +That kept the bravery of the Gaels secure-- +Thus to be brought together from afar +To fight each other through the meddling schemes +Of Ailill and his wily partner Mave. + From each to each the missive weapons flew +From dawn of early morning to mid-day; +And when mid-day had come, the ire of both +Became more furious, and they drew more near. +Then was it that Cuchullin made a spring +From the Ford's brink, and came upon the boss +Of the great shield Ferdiah's arm upheld, +That thus he might, above the broad shield's rim, +Strike at his head. Ferdiah with a touch +Of his left elbow, gave the shield a shake +And cast Cuchullin from him like a bird, +Back to the brink of the Ford. Again he sprang +From the Ford's brink, and came upon the boss +Of the great shield once more, to strike his head +Over the rim. Ferdiah with a stroke +Of his left knee made the great shield to ring, +And cast Cuchullin back upon the brink, +As if he only were a little child. + Laegh saw the act. "Alas! indeed," said Laegh, +"The warrior casts thee from him in the way +That an abandoned woman would her child. +He flings thee as a river flings its foam; +He grinds thee as a mill would grind fresh malt; +He fells thee as the axe does fell the oak; +He binds thee as the woodbine binds the tree; +He darts upon thee as a hawk doth dart +Upon small birds, so that from this hour forth +Until the end of time, thou hast no claim +Or title to be called a valorous man: +Thou little puny phantom form," said Laegh. + Then with the rapid motion of the wind, +The fleetness of a swallow on the wing, +The fierceness of a dragon, and the strength +Of a roused lion, once again up sprang +Cuchullin, high into the troubled air, +And lighted for the third time on the boss +Of the broad shield, to strike Ferdiah's head +Over the rim. The warrior shook the shield, +And cast Cuchullin mid-way in the Ford, +With such an easy effort that it seemed +As if he scarcely deigned to shake him off. + + Then, as he lay, a strange distortion came +Upon Cuchullin; as a bladder swells +Inflated by the breath, to such a size +And fulness did he grow, that he became +A fearful, many-coloured, wondrous Tuaig-- +Gigantic shape, as big as a man of the sea, +Or monstrous Fomor, so that now his form +In perfect height over Ferdiah stood. + +So close the fight was now, that their heads met +Above, their feet below, their arms half-way +Over the rims and bosses of their shields:-- +So close the fight was now, that from their rims +Unto their centres were their shields cut through, +And loosed was every rivet from its hold; +So close the fight was now, that their strong spears +Were turned and bent and shivered point and haft; +Such was the closeness of the fight they made +That the invisible and unearthly hosts +Of Spirits, Bocanachs and Bananachs, +And the wild wizard people of the glen +And of the air the demons, shrieked and screamed +From their broad shields' reverberating rim, +From their sword-hilts and their long-shafted spears: +Such was the closeness of the fight they made, +They forced the river from its natural course, +Out of its bed, so that it might have been +A couch whereon a king or queen might lie, +For not a drop of water it retained, +Except what came from the great tramp and splash +Of the two heroes fighting in its midst. +Such was the fierceness of the fight they waged, +That a wild fury seized upon the steeds +The Gaels had gathered with them; in affright +They burst their traces and their binding ropes, +Nay even their chains, and panting fled away. +The women, too, and youths, by equal fears +Inspired and scared, and all the varied crowd +Of followers and non-combatants who there +Were with the men of Erin, from the camp +South-westward broke away, and fled the Ford. + + At the edge-feat of swords they were engaged +When this surprise occurred, and it was then +Ferdiah an unguarded moment found +Upon Cuchullin, and he struck him deep, +Plunging his straight-edged sword up to the hilt +Within his body, till his girdle filled +With blood, and all the Ford ran red with gore +From the brave battle-warrior's veins outshed. +This could Cuchullin now no longer bear +Because Ferdiah still the unguarded spot +Struck and re-struck with quick, strong, stubborn strokes; +And so he called aloud to Laegh, the son +Of Riangabra, for the dread Gaebulg. +The manner of that fearful feat was this: +Adown the current was it sent, and caught +Between the toes: a single spear would make +The wound it made when entering, but once lodged +Within the body, thirty barbs outsprung, +So that it could not be withdrawn until +The body was cut open where it lay. +And when of the Gaebulg Ferdiah heard +The name, he made a downward stroke of his shield, +To guard his body. Then Cuchullin thrust +The unerring thorny spear straight o'er the rim, +And through the breast-plate of his coat of mail, +So that its farther half was seen beyond +His body, after passing through his heart. + + Ferdiah gave an upward stroke of his shield, +His breast to cover, though it was "the relief +After the danger." Then the servant set +The dread Gaebulg adown the flowing stream; +Cuchullin caught it firmly 'twixt his toes, +And from his foot a fearful cast he threw +Upon Ferdiah with unerring aim. +Swift through the well-wrought iron apron guard +It passed, and through the stone which was as large +As a huge mill-stone, cracking it in three, +And so into his body, every part +Of which was filled with the expanding barbs +"That is enough: by that one blow I fall," +Ferdiah said. "Indeed, I now may own +That I am sickly after thee this day, +Though it behoved not thee that I should fall +By stroke of thine;" and then these dying words +He added, tottering back upon the bank: + +FERDIAH. + +O Hound, so famed for deeds of valour doing, + 'Twas not thy place my death to give to me; +Thine is the fault of my most certain ruin, + And yet 'tis best to have my blood on thee. + +The wretch escapes not from his false position, + Who to the gap of his destruction goes; +Alas! my death-sick voice needs no physician, + My end hath come--my life's stream seaward flows. + +The natural ramparts of my breast are broken, + In its own gore my struggling heart is drowned:-- +Alas! I have not fought as I have spoken, + For thou hast killed me in the fight, O Hound! + +Cuchullin towards him ran, and his two arms +Clasping about him, lifted him and bore +The body in its armour and its clothes +Across the Ford unto the northern bank, +In order that the slain should thus be placed +Upon the north bank of the Ford, and not +Among the men of Erin, on the west. +Cuchullin laid Ferdiah down, and then +A sudden trance, a faintness on him came +When bending o'er the body of his friend. +Laegh saw the weakness, which was seen as well +By all the men of Erin, who arose +Upon the moment to attack him there. +"Good, O Cuchullin," Laegh exclaimed, "arise, +For all the men of Erin hither come. +It is no single combat they will give, +Since fair Ferdiah, Daman's son, the son +Of Dare, by thy hands has here been slain." +"O servant, what availeth me to rise," +Cuchullin said, "since he hath fallen by me?" +And so the servant said, and so replied +Cuchullin, in his turn, unto the end; + +LAEGH. + +Arise, Emania's slaughter-hound, arise, + Exultant pride should be thy mood this day:-- +Ferdiah of the hosts before thee lies-- + Hard was the fight and dreadful was the fray. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Ah, what availeth me a hero's pride? + Madness and grief are in my heart and brain, +For the dear blood with which my hand is dyed-- + For the dear body that I here have slain. + +LAEGH. + +It suits thee ill to shed these idle tears, + Fitter by far for thee a fiercer mood-- +At thee he flung the flying pointed spears, + Malicious, wounding, dripping, dyed with blood. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Even though he left me crippled, maimed, and lame, + Even though I lost this arm that now but bleeds, +All would I bear, but now the fields of fame + No more shall see Ferdiah mount his steeds. + +LAEGH. + +More pleasing is the victory thou hast gained, + More pleasing to the women of Creeve Rue, +He to have died and thou to have remained, + To them the brave who fell here are too few. + +From that black day in brilliant Mave's long reign + Thou camest out of Cuailgne it has been-- +Her people slaughtered and her champions slain-- + A time of desolation to the queen. + +When thy great plundered flock was borne away, + Thou didst not lie with slumber-seal`ed eyes,-- +Then 'twas thy boast to rise before the day:-- + Arise again, Emania's Hound, arise! + +So Laegh addressed the hero, though he seemed +To hear him not, but mourned his friend the more. +And thus he spoke these words, and thus he moaned: + + "Alas! Ferdiah, an unhappy chance +It was for thee that thou didst not consult +Some of the heroes who my prowess knew, +Before thou camest forth to meet me here, +In the hard battle combat by the Ford. +Unhappy was it that it was not Laegh, +The son of Riangabra, thou didst ask +About our fellow-pupilship--a bond +That might the unnatural combat so have stayed; +Unhappy was it that thou didst not ask +Honest advice from Fergus, son of Roy; +Or that it was not battle-winning, proud, +Exulting, ruddy Connall thou didst ask +About our fellow-pupilship of old. +For well do these men know there will not be +A being born among the Conacians who +Shall do the deeds of valour thou hast done +From this day forth until the end of time. +For if thou hadst consulted these brave men +About the places where the assemblies meet, +About the plightings and the broken vows +Uttered too oft by Connaught's fair-haired dames; +If thou hadst asked about the games and sports +Played with the targe and shield, the sword and spear, +If of backgammon or the moves of chess, +Or races with the chariots and the steeds, +They never would have found a champion's arm +As strong to pierce a hero's flesh as thine, +O rose-cloud hued Ferdiah! None to raise +The red-mouthed vulture's hoarse, inviting croak +Unto the many-coloured flocks, nor one +Who will for Croghan combat like to thee, +O red-cheeked son of Daman!" Thus he said, +Then standing o'er Ferdiah he resumed: +"Oh! great has been the treachery and fraud +The men of Erin practised upon thee, +Ferdiah, thus to bring thee here to fight +With me, 'gainst whom it is no easy task +Upon the Tain Bo Cuailgne to contend." +And thus he said, and thus again he spake: + +CUCHULLIN. + +O my Ferdiah, O my friend, forgive: + 'Tis not my hand but treachery lays thee low:-- +Thou doomed to die and I condemned to live, + Both doomed for ever to be severed so! + +When we were far away in our young prime, + With Scatha, dread Buannan's chosen friend, +A vow we made, that till the end of time, + With hostile arms we never should contend. + +Dear was thy lovely ruddiness to me, + Dear was thy gray-blue eye, so bright and clear,-- +Thy comely, perfect form how sweet to see! + Thy wisdom and thy eloquence how dear! + +In body-cutting combat, on the field + Of spears, when all is lost or all is won, +None braver ever yet held up a shield, + Than thou, Ferdiah, Daman's ruddy son. + +Never since Aife's only son I slew, + Not knowing who the gallant youth might be,-- +Ah! hapless deed, that still my heart doth rue!-- + None have I found, Ferdiah, like to thee. + +Thy dream it was to win fair Finavair, + From Mave her beauteous daughter's hand to gain; +As soon might'st thou in the wide fields of air + The glancing sunbeam's swift-winged flight restrain. + +He paused awhile, still gazing on the dead, +Then to his charioteer he spoke: "Friend Laegh, +Strip now Ferdiah, take his armour off, +That I may see the golden brooch of Mave, +For which he undertook the fatal fight." +Laegh took the armour then from off his breast, +And then Cuchullin saw the golden pin +That cost so dear, and then these words he spake: + +CUCHULLIN. + +Alas! O brooch of gold! + O chief, whose fame each poet knows, + O hero of stout slaughtering blows, +Thy arm was brave and bold. + +Thy yellow flowing hair, + Thy purple girdle's silken fold + Still even in death around thee rolled,-- +Thy twisted jewel rare. + +Thy noble beaming eyes, + Now closed in death, make mine grow dim, + Thy dazzling shield with golden rim, +Thy chess a king might prize. + +Oh! piteous to behold, + My fellow-pupil falls by me: + It was an end that should not be, +Alas! O brooch of gold! + +After another pause Cuchullin spoke:-- +"O Laegh, my friend, open Ferdiah now, +And from his body the Gaebulg take out, +For I without my weapon cannot be." + +Laegh then approached, and with a strong, sharp knife +Opened Ferdiah's body, and drew out +The dread Gaebulg. And when Cuchullin saw +His bloody weapon lying red beside +Ferdiah on the ground, again he thought +Of all their past career, and thus he said: + +CUCHULLIN. + +Sad is my fate that I should see thee lying, + Sad is the fate, Ferdiah, I deplore,-- +I with my weapon which thy blood is dyeing, + Thou on the ground a mass of streaming gore. + +When we were young, where Scatha's eye hath seen us + Fond fellow-pupils in her schools of Skye, +Never was heard the angry word between us, + Never was seen the angry spear to fly. + +Scatha, with words of eloquent persuading, + Roused us in many a glorious feat to join; +"Go," she exclaimed, "each other bravely aiding, + Go forth to battle with the dread Germoin." + +I to Ferdiah said: "Oh, come, my brother," + I to the ever-generous Luaigh said, +I to fair Baetan's son, and many another: + "Come, let us go and fight this foe so dread." + +Crossing the sea in ships of peaceful traders, + All of us came to lone Lind Formairt's lake, +With us we brought four hundred brave invaders + Out of the islands of the Athisech. + +I and Ferdiah were the first to enter, + Where he himself, the dread Germoin, held rule, +Rind, Nial's son, I clove from head to centre, + Ruad I killed, the son of Finniule. + +First on the shore, as swift our fleet ships flew there, + Blath, son of Calba of red swords, was slain; +Struck by Ferdiah, Luaigh also slew there + Fierce rude Mugarne of the Torrian main. + +Bravely we battled against that court enchanted, + Full four times fifty heroes fell by me: +He, by their savage onslaught nothing daunted, + Slew ox-like monsters clambering from the sea. + +Wily Germoin, amid so many slaughters, + We took alive as trophy of the field, +Him o'er the broad, bright sea of spangled waters + We bore to Scatha of the bright broad shield. + +She, our famed tutoress, with kind endeavour, + Bound us from that day forth with heart and hand, +When met fair Elgga's tribes, that we should never + In hostile ranks before each other stand. + +Oh, day of woe! oh, day without a morrow! + Oh, fatal Tuesday morning, when the bud +Of his young life was scattered! Oh! the sorrow, + To give the friend I loved a drink of blood! + +Ah, if I saw thee among heroes lying + Dead on some glorious battlefield of Greece, +Soon would I follow thee, and proudly dying, + Sleep with my friend triumphant and at peace. + +We, Scatha's pupils, ah, how sad the story! + Thou to be dead and I to be alive: +I to be wounded here, all gashed and gory, + Thou never more thy chariot's steeds to drive. + +We, Scatha's pupils, ah! how sad the story; + Sad is the fate to which we both are led: +I to be wounded here, all gashed and gory, + And thou, alas! my friend, to lie here dead. + +We, Scatha's pupils, ah, how sad the story! + Sad is the deed and sorrowful the wrong: +Thou to be dead without thy meed of glory, + And I, oh! shame, to be alive and strong! + +Laegh interposed at length, and thus he said: +"Good, O Cuchullin, let us leave the Ford, +For long have we been here, by far too long." +"Let us then leave it now," Cuchullin said, +"O Laegh, my friend, but know that every fight +In which I hitherto have drawn my sword, +Has been but as a pastime and a sport +Compared with this one with Ferdiah fought." +And he was saying, and he spake these words: + +CUCHULLIN. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +Alike the teaching we received, +Alike were glad, alike were grieved, +Alike were we by Scatha's grace +Deemed worthy of the highest place. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +Alike our habits and our ways, +Alike our prowess and our praise, +Alike the trophies of the brave, +The glittering shields that Scatha gave. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +How dear to me, ah! who can know? +This golden pillar here laid low, +This mighty tree so strong and tall, +The chief, the champion of us all! + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +The lion rushing with a roar, +The wave that swallows up the shore, +When storm-winds blow and heaven is dim, +Could only be compared to him. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +Through me the friend I loved is dead, +A cloud is ever on my head-- +The mountain form, the giant frame, +Is now a shadow and a name. + +The countless legions of the 'Tain,' +Those hands of mine have turned and slain: +Their men and steeds before me died, +Their flocks and herds on either side, +Though numerous were the hosts that came +From Croghan's Rath of fatal fame. + +Though less than half the foes I led, +Before me soon my foes lay dead: +Never to gory battle pressed, +Never was nursed on Bamba's breast, +Never from sons of kings there came +A hero of more glorious fame.[52] + + +28. This poem is now published for the first time in its complete +state. + +29. Autumn; strictly the last night in October. (See O'Curry's "Sick +Bed of Cuchullin," "Atlantis," i., p. 370). + +30. Culann was the name of Conor MacNessa's smith, and it was from him +that Setanta derived the name of Cu-Chulainn, or Culann's Hound. + +31. Iorrus Domnann, now Erris, in the county of Mayo. It derived its +name ("Bay of the Domnanns," or "Deep-diggers,") from the party of the +Firbolgs, so called, having settled there, under their chiefs Genann and +Rudhraighe. (See "The Fate of the Children of Lir," by O'Curry, +Atlantis, iv., p. 123; Dr. Reeve's "Adamnan's Life of St. Columba," note +6, p. 31; O'Flaherty's "Ogygia," p. 280; and Hardiman's "West +Connaught," by O'Flaherty, published by the Irish Archaeological +Society.) + +32. The name of Scatha, the Amazonian instructress of Ferdiah and +Cuchullin, is still preserved in Dun Sciath, in the island of Skye, +where great Cuchullin's name and glory yet linger. The Cuchullin +Mountains, named after him, "those thunder-smitten, jagged, Cuchullin +peaks of Skye," the grandest mountain range in Great Britain, attract to +that remote island of the Hebrides many worshippers of the sublime and +beautiful in nature, whose enjoyments would be largely enhanced if they +knew the heroic legends which are connected with the glorious scenes +they have travelled so far to witness. Cuchullin is one of the foremost +characters in MacPherson's "Ossian," but the quasi-translator of Gaelic +poems places him more than two centuries later than the period at which +he really lived. (Lady Ferguson's "The Irish before the Conquest," pp. +57, 58.) + +33. For a description of this mysterious instrument, see Dr. Todd's +"Additional Notes to the Irish version of Nennius," p. 12. + +34. On the use of mail armour by the ancient Irish, see Dr. O'Donovan's +"Introduction and Notes to the Battle of Magh-Rath," edited for the +Archaeological Society. + +35. For an interesting account of this sovereign, so famous in Irish +story, see O'Curry's "Lectures," pp. 33, 34. Her Father, according to +the chronology of the "Four Masters," is supposed to have reigned as +monarch of Erin about a century before the Christian era. "Of all the +children of the monarch Eochaidh Fiedloch," says O'Donovan (cited in +O'Mahony's translation of Keating's "History," p. 276) "by far the most +celebrated was Meadbh or Mab, who is still remembered as the fairy queen +of the Irish, the 'Queen Mab' of Spenser." + +36. "The belief that a 'ferb' or ulcer could be produced," says Mr. +Stokes, in his preface to 'Cormac's Glossary,' "forms the groundwork of +the tale of Nede mac Adnae and his uncle, Caier." The names of the +three blisters (Stain, Blemish, and Defect) are almost identical with +those Ferdiah is threatened with in the present poem. + +37. A 'cumal' was three cows, or their value. On the use of chariots, +see "The Sick Bed of Cuchullin," Atlantis, i., p. 375. + +38. "The plains of Aie" (son of Allghuba the Druid), in Roscommon. +Here stood the palace of Cruachain (O'Curry's "Lectures," p. 35; "Battle +of Magh Leana," p. 61). + +39. "Fair-brow" (O'Curry, "Exile of the Children of Uisnech," Atlantis, +ii., p. 386). + +40. Here in the original there is a sudden change from prose to verse. +"It is generally supposed that these stories were recited by the ancient +Irish poets for the amusement of their chieftains at their public +feasts, and that the portions given in metre were sung" ("Battle of Magh +Rath," p. 12). The prose portions of this tale are represented in the +translation by blank verse, and the lyrical portions by rhymed verse. + +41. "Ugaine Mor exacted oaths by the sun and moon, the sea, the dew, +and colours . . . that the sovereignty of Erin should be invested in his +descendants for ever" (Ib. p. 3). + +42. The high dignity of Domnal may be inferred from the following +lines, quoted from MacLenini, in the preface to "Cormac's Glossary," +p. 51:-- + "As blackbirds to swans, as an ounce to a mass of gold, + As the forms of peasant women to the forms of queens, + As a king to Domnal . . . + As a taper to a candle, so is a sword to my sword." + +43. She was the wife of Ned, the war-god. See O'Donovan's "Annals of +the Four Masters," vol. i., p. 24. + +44. Etan is said to have been 'muime na filed,' nurse of the poets +("Three Irish Glossaries," preface, p. 33). + +45. At Rathcroghan was the palace of the Kings of Connacht. + +46. A name of Ireland ("Battle of Magh Leana," p. 79). + +47. So the night before the battle of Magh Rath, "the monarch, grandson +of Ainmire, slept not, in consequence of the weight of the battle and +the anxiety of the conflict pressing on his mind; for he was certain +that his own beloved foster-son would, on the morrow, meet his last +fate." + +48. In the "Battle of Magh Leana" these mysterious beings are called +"the Women of the Valley" (p. 120). + +49. For this line and for many valuable suggestions throughout the poem +I am indebted to the deep poetical insight and correct judgment of my +friend, Aubrey de Vere. + +50. "Derg Dian Scothach saw this order, and he put his forefinger into +the string of the spear." "Fate of the Children of Tuireann," by +O'Curry, Atlantis, iv., p. 233. See also "Battle of Magh Rath," pp. +140, 141, 152. + +51. Bregia was the ancient name of the plain watered by the Boyne. + +52. According to the marginal note of the learned editor, the last four +lines appear to be a sort of epilogue, in which the poet extols the +victor. + + + +THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN. +A.D. 545. + +[We are informed that Brendan, hearing of the previous voyage of his +cousin, Barinthus, in the western ocean, and obtaining an account from +him of the happy isles he had landed on in the far west, determined, +under the strong desire of winning heathen souls to Christ, to undertake +a voyage of discovery himself. And aware that all along the western +coast of Ireland there were many traditions respecting the existence of +a western land, he proceeded to the islands of Arran, and there remained +for some time, holding communication with the venerable St. Enda, and +obtaining from him much information relating to his voyage. Having +prosecuted his inquiries with diligence, Brendan returned to his native +Kerry; and from a bay sheltered by the lofty mountain that is now known +by his name, he set sail for the Atlantic land; and, directing his +course towards the south-west, in order to meet the summer solstice, or +what we should call the tropic, after a long and rough voyage, his +little bark being well provisioned, he came to summer seas, where he was +carried along, without the aid of sail or oar, for many a long day. +This, which it is to be presumed was the great gulf-stream, brought his +vessel to shore somewhere about the Virginian capes, or where the +American coast tends eastward, and forms the New England States. Here +landing, he and his companions marched steadily into the interior for +fifteen days, and then came to a large river, flowing from east to west: +this, evidently, was the river Ohio. And this the holy adventurer was +about to cross, when he was accosted by a person of noble presence--but +whether a real or visionary man does not appear--who told him he had +gone far enough; that further discoveries were reserved for other men, +who would, in due time, come and Christianise all that pleasant land. +It is said he remained seven years away, and returned to set up a +college of three thousand monks, at Clonfert.--"Caesar Otway's Sketches +in Erris and Tyrawley," note, pp. 98, 99.] + + +THE VOCATION. + +[When St. Brendan was an infant, says Colgan, he was placed under the +care of St. Ita, and remained with her five years, after which period he +was led away by Bishop Ercus in order to receive from him the more solid +instruction necessary for his advancing years. Brendan always retained +the greatest respect and affection for his foster-mother, and he is +represented, after his seven years' voyage, amusing St. Ita with an +account of his adventures in the ocean.] + +O Ita, mother of my heart and mind-- + My nourisher, my fosterer, my friend, +Who taught me first to God's great will resigned, + Before his shining altar-steps to bend; +Who poured his word upon my soul like balm, + And on mine eyes what pious fancy paints-- +And on mine ear the sweetly swelling psalm, + And all the sacred knowledge of the saints; + +To whom but thee, dear mother, should be told + Of all the wonders I have seen afar?-- +Islands more green and suns of brighter gold + Than this dear land or yonder blazing star; +Of hills that bear the fruit-trees on their tops, + And seas that dimple with eternal smiles; +Of airs from heaven that fan the golden crops, + O'er the great ocean 'mid the blessed isles! + +Thou knowest, O my mother! how to thee + The blessed Ercus led me when a boy, +And how within thine arms and at thine knee, + I learned the lore that death cannot destroy; +And how I parted hence with bitter tears, + And felt, when turning from thy friendly door, +In the reality of ripening years, + My paradise of childhood was no more. + +I wept--but not with sin such tear-drops flow;-- + I sighed--for earthly things with heaven entwine; +Tears make the harvest of the heart to grow, + And love though human is almost divine. +The heart that loves not knows not how to pray; + The eye can never smile that never weeps: +'Tis through our sighs hope's kindling sunbeams play + And through our tears the bow of promise peeps. + +I grew to manhood by the western wave, + Among the mighty mountains on the shore: +My bed the rock within some natural cave, + My food whate'er the seas or seasons bore: +My occupation, morn and noon and night: + The only dream my hasty slumbers gave, +Was Time's unheeding, unreturning flight, + And the great world that lies beyond the grave. + +And thus, where'er I went, all things to me + Assumed the one deep colour of my mind; +Great nature's prayer rose from the murmuring sea, + And sinful man sighed in the wintry wind. +The thick-veiled clouds by shedding many a tear, + Like penitents, grew purified and bright, +And, bravely struggling through earth's atmosphere, + Passed to the regions of eternal light. + +I loved to watch the clouds now dark and dun, + In long procession and funeral line, +Pass with slow pace across the glorious sun, + Like hooded monks before a dazzling shrine. +And now with gentler beauty as they rolled + Along the azure vault in gladsome May, +Gleaming pure white, and edged with broidered gold, + Like snowy vestments on the Virgin's day. + +And then I saw the mighty sea expand + Like Time's unmeasured and unfathomed waves, +One with its tide-marks on the ridgy sand, + The other with its line of weedy graves; +And as beyond the outstretched wave of time, + The eye of Faith a brighter land may meet, +So did I dream of some more sunny clime + Beyond the waste of waters at my feet. + +Some clime where man, unknowing and unknown, + For God's refreshing word still gasps and faints; +Or happier rather some Elysian zone, + Made for the habitation of his saints: +Where Nature's love the sweat of labour spares, + Nor turns to usury the wealth it lends, +Where the rich soil spontaneous harvest bears, + And the tall tree with milk-filled clusters bends. + +The thought grew stronger with my growing days, + Even like to manhood's strengthening mind and limb, +And often now amid the purple haze + That evening breathed upon the horizon's rim-- +Methought, as there I sought my wished-for home, + I could descry amid the waters green, +Full many a diamond shrine and golden dome, + And crystal palaces of dazzling sheen. + +And then I longed, with impotent desire, + Even for the bow whereby the Python bled, +That I might send on dart of the living fire + Into that land, before the vision fled, +And thus at length fix the enchanted shore, + Hy-Brasail, Eden of the western wave! +That thou again wouldst fade away no more, + Buried and lost within thy azure grave. + +But angels came and whispered as I dreamt, + "This is no phantom of a frenzied brain-- +God shows this land from time to time to tempt + Some daring mariner across the main: +By thee the mighty venture must be made, + By thee shall myriad souls to Christ be won! +Arise, depart, and trust to God for aid!" + I woke, and kneeling, cried, "His will be done!" + + +ARA OF THE SAINTS.[53] + +Hearing how blessed Enda lived apart, + Amid the sacred caves of Ara-mhor, +And how beneath his eye, spread like a chart, + Lay all the isles of that remotest shore; +And how he had collected in his mind + All that was known to man of the Old Sea,[54] +I left the Hill of Miracles[55] behind, + And sailed from out the shallow, sandy Leigh. + +Betwixt the Samphire Isles swam my light skiff, + And like an arrow flew through Fenor Sound, +Swept by the pleasant strand, and the tall cliff, + Whereon the pale rose amethysts are found. +Rounded Moyferta's rocky point, and crossed + The mouth of stream-streaked Erin's mightiest tide, +Whose troubled waves break o'er the City lost, + Chafed by the marble turrets that they hide. + +Beneath Ibrickan's hills, moory and tame, + And Inniscaorach's caves, so wild and dark, +I sailed along. The white-faced otter came, + And gazed in wonder on my floating bark. +The soaring gannet, perched upon my mast, + And the proud bird, that flies but o'er the sea, +Wheeled o'er my head: and the girrinna passed + Upon the branch of some life-giving tree.[56] + +Leaving the awful cliffs of Corcomroe, + I sought the rocky eastern isle, that bears +The name of blessed Coemhan, who doth show + Pity unto the storm-tossed seaman's prayers; +Then crossing Bealach-na-fearbach's treacherous sound, + I reached the middle isle, whose citadel +Looks like a monarch from its throne around; + And there I rested by St. Kennerg's well. + +Again I sailed, and crossed the stormy sound + That lies beneath Binn-Aite's rocky height-- +And there, upon the shore, the Saint I found + Waiting my coming though the tardy night. +He led me to his home beside the wave, + Where, with his monks, the pious father dwelled, +And to my listening ear he freely gave + The sacred knowledge that his bosom held. + +When I proclaimed the project that I nursed, + How 'twas for this that I his blessing sought, +An irrepressible cry of joy outburst + From his pure lips, that blessed me for the thought. +He said that he, too, had in visions strayed + Over the untracked ocean's billowy foam; +Bid me have hope, that God would give me aid, + And bring me safe back to my native home. + +Oft, as we paced that marble-covered land, + Would blessed Enda tell me wondrous tales-- +How, for the children of his love, the hand + Of the Omnipotent Father never fails-- +How his own sister,[57] standing by the side + Of the great sea, which bore no human bark, +Spread her light cloak upon the conscious tide, + And sailed thereon securely as an ark. + +And how the winds become the willing slaves + Of those who labour in the work of God; +And how Scothinus walked upon the waves, + Which seemed to him the meadow's verdant sod. +How he himself came hither with his flock, + To teach the infidels from Corcomroe, +Upon the floating breast of the hard rock, + Which lay upon the glistening sands below. + +But not alone of miracles and joys + Would Enda speak--he told me of his dream; +When blessed Kieran went to Clonmacnois, + To found the sacred churches by the stream-- +How he did weep to see the angels flee + Away from Arran as a place accursed; +And men tear up the island-shading tree, + Out of the soil from which it sprung at first. + +At length I tore me from the good man's sight, + And o'er Loch Lurgan's mouth[58] took my lone way, +Which, in the sunny morning's golden light, + Shone like the burning lake of Lassarae; +Now 'neath heaven's frown--and now, beneath its smile-- + Borne on the tide, or driven before the gale; +And, as I passed MacDara's sacred Isle, + Thrice bowed my mast, and thrice let down my sail. + +Westward of Arran as I sailed away; + I saw the fairest sight eye can behold-- +Rocks which, illumined by the morning's ray, + Seemed like a glorious city built of gold. +Men moved along each sunny shining street, + Fires seemed to blaze, and curling smoke to rise, +When lo! the city vanished, and a fleet, + With snowy sails, rose on my ravished eyes. + +Thus having sought for knowledge and for strength, + For the unheard-of voyage that I planned, +I left these myriad isles, and turned at length + Southward my bark, and sought my native land. +There made I all things ready, day by day, + The wicker-boat, with ox-skins covered o'er-- +Chose the good monks companions of my way, + And waited for the wind to leave the shore. + + +THE VOYAGE. + +At length the long-expected morning came, + When from the opening arms of that wild bay, +Beneath the hill that bears my humble name, + Over the waves we took our untracked way; +Sweetly the morning lay on tarn and rill, + Gladly the waves played in its golden light, +And the proud top of the majestic hill + Shone in the azure air, serene and bright. + +Over the sea we flew that sunny morn, + Not without natural tears and human sighs: +For who can leave the land where he was born, + And where, perchance, a buried mother lies; +Where all the friends of riper manhood dwell, + And where the playmates of his childhood sleep: +Who can depart, and breathe a cold farewell, + Nor let his eyes their honest tribute weep? + +Our little bark, kissing the dimpled smiles + On ocean's cheek, flew like a wanton bird, +And then the land, with all its hundred isles, + Faded away, and yet we spoke no word. +Each silent tongue held converse with the past, + Each moistened eye looked round the circling wave, +And, save the spot where stood our trembling mast, + Saw all things hid within one mighty grave. + +We were alone, on the wide watery waste-- + Nought broke its bright monotony of blue, +Save where the breeze the flying billows chased, + Or where the clouds their purple shadows threw. +We were alone--the pilgrims of the sea-- + One boundless azure desert round us spread; +No hope, no trust, no strength, except in THEE, + Father, who once the pilgrim-people led. + +And when the bright-faced sun resigned his throne + Unto the Ethiop queen, who rules the night, +Who with her pearly crown and starry zone, + Fills the dark dome of heaven with silvery light;-- +As on we sailed, beneath her milder sway, + And felt within our hearts her holier power, +We ceased from toil, and humbly knelt to pray, + And hailed with vesper hymns the tranquil hour! + +For then, indeed, the vaulted heavens appeared + A fitting shrine to hear their Maker's praise, +Such as no human architect has reared, + Where gems, and gold, and precious marbles blaze. +What earthly temple such a roof can boast?-- + What flickering lamp with the rich starlight vies, +When the round moon rests, like the sacred Host, + Upon the azure altar of the skies? + +We breathed aloud the Christian's filial prayer, + Which makes us brothers even with the Lord; +Our Father, cried we, in the midnight air, + In heaven and earth be thy great name adored; +May thy bright kingdom, where the angels are, + Replace this fleeting world, so dark and dim. +And then, with eyes fixed on some glorious star, + We sang the Virgin-Mother's vesper hymn! + +Hail, brightest star! that o'er life's troubled sea + Shines pitying down from heaven's elysian blue! +Mother and Maid, we fondly look to thee, + Fair gate of bliss, where heaven beams brightly through. +Star of the morning! guide our youthful days, + Shine on our infant steps in life's long race, +Star of the evening! with thy tranquil rays, + Gladden the aged eyes that seek thy face. + +Hail, sacred Maid! thou brighter, better Eve, + Take from our eyes the blinding scales of sin; +Within our hearts no selfish poison leave, + For thou the heavenly antidote canst win. +O sacred Mother! 'tis to thee we run-- + Poor children, from this world's oppressive strife; +Ask all we need from thy immortal Son, + Who drank of death, that we might taste of life. + +Hail, spotless Virgin! mildest, meekest maid-- + Hail! purest Pearl that time's great sea hath borne-- +May our white souls, in purity arrayed, + Shine, as if they thy vestal robes had worn; +Make our hearts pure, as thou thyself art pure, + Make safe the rugged pathway of our lives, +And make us pass to joys that will endure + When the dark term of mortal life arrives.[59] + +'Twas thus, in hymns, and prayers, and holy psalms, + Day tracking day, and night succeeding night, +Now driven by tempests, now delayed by calms, + Along the sea we winged our varied flight. +Oh! how we longed and pined for sight of land! + Oh! how we sighed for the green pleasant fields! +Compared with the cold waves, the barest strand-- + The bleakest rock--a crop of comfort yields. + +Sometimes, indeed, when the exhausted gale, + In search of rest, beneath the waves would flee, +Like some poor wretch who, when his strength doth fail, + Sinks in the smooth and unsupporting sea: +Then would the Brothers draw from memory's store + Some chapter of life's misery or bliss, +Some trial that some saintly spirit bore, + Or else some tale of passion, such as this: + + +THE BURIED CITY. + +[The peasants who live near the mouth of the Shannon point to a part of +the river within the headlands over which the tides rush with +extraordinary rapidity and violence. They say it is the site of a lost +city, long buried beneath the waves.--See Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii. p. +436.] + +Beside that giant stream that foams and swells + Betwixt Hy-Conaill and Moyarta's shore, +And guards the isle where good Senanus dwells, + A gentle maiden dwelt in days of yore. +She long has passed out of Time's aching womb, + And breathes Eternity's favonian air; +Yet fond Tradition lingers o'er her tomb, + And paints her glorious features as they were:-- + +Her smile was Eden's pure and stainless light, + Which never cloud nor earthly vapour mars; +Her lustrous eyes were like the noon of night-- + Black, but yet brightened by a thousand stars; +Her tender form, moulded in modest grace, + Shrank from the gazer's eye, and moved apart; +Heaven shone reflected in her angel face, + And God reposed within her virgin heart. + +She dwelt in green Moyarta's pleasant land, + Beneath the graceful hills of Clonderlaw,-- +Sweet sunny hills, whose triple summits stand, + One vast tiara over stream and shaw. +Almost in solitude the maiden grew, + And reached her early budding woman's prime; +And all so noiselessly the swift time flew, + She knew not of the name or flight of Time. + +And thus, within her modest mountain nest, + This gentle maiden nestled like a dove, +Offering to God from her pure innocent breast + The sweet and silent incense of her love. +No selfish feeling nor presumptuous pride + In her calm bosom waged unnatural strife; +Saint of her home and hearth, she sanctified + The thousand trivial common cares of life. + +Upon the opposite shore there dwelt a youth, + Whose nature's woof was woven of good and ill-- +Whose stream of life flowed to the sea of truth, + But in a devious course, round many a hill-- +Now lingering through a valley of delight, + Where sweet flowers bloomed, and summer songbirds sung, +Now hurled along the dark, tempestuous night, + With gloomy, treeless mountains overhung. + +He sought the soul of Beauty throughout space, + Knowledge he tracked through many a vanished age: +For one he scanned fair Nature's radiant face, + And for the other, Learning's shrivelled page. +If Beauty sent some fair apostle down, + Or Knowledge some great teacher of her lore, +Bearing the wreath of rapture and the crown, + He knelt to love, to learn, and to adore. + +Full many a time he spread his little sail, + How rough the river, or how dark the skies, +Gave his light corrach to the angry gale, + And crossed the stream to gaze on Ethna's eyes. +As yet 'twas worship, more than human love, + That hopeless adoration that we pay +Unto some glorious planet throned above, + Through severed from its crystal sphere for aye. + +But warmer love an easy conquest won, + The more he came to green Moyarta's bowers; +Even as the earth, by gazing on the sun, + In summer-time puts forth her myriad flowers. +The yearnings of his heart--vague, undefined-- + Wakened and solaced by ideal gleams, +Took everlasting shape, and intertwined + Around this incarnation of his dreams. + +Some strange fatality restrained his tongue-- + He spoke not of the love that filled his breast; +The thread of hope, on which his whole life hung, + Was far too weak to bear so strong a test. +He trusted to the future--time, or chance-- + His constant homage and assiduous care; +Preferred to dream, and lengthen out his trance, + Rather than wake to knowledge and despair. + +And thus she knew not, when the youth would look + Upon some pictured chronicle of eld, +In every blazoned letter of the book + One fairest face was all that he beheld: +And where the limner, with consummate art, + Drew flowing lines and quaint devices rare, +The wildered youth, by looking from the heart, + Saw nought but lustrous eyes and waving hair. + +He soon was startled from his dreams, for now-- + 'Twas said, obedient to a heavenly call-- +His life of life would take the vestal vow, + In one short month, within a convent's wall. +He heard the tidings with a sickening fear, + But quickly had the sudden faintness flown, +And vowed, though heaven or hell should interfere, + Ethna--his Ethna--should be his alone! + +He sought his boat, and snatched the feathery oar-- + It was the first and brightest morn of May: +The white-winged clouds, that sought the northern shore, + Seemed but Love's guides, to point him out the way. +The great old river heaved its mighty heart, + And, with a solemn sigh, went calmly on; +As if of all his griefs it felt a part, + But know they should be borne, and so had gone. + +Slowly his boat the languid breeze obeyed, + Although the stream that that light burden bore +Was like the level path the angels made, + Through the rough sea, to Arran's blessed shore; +And from the rosy clouds the light airs fanned, + And from the rich reflection that they gave, +Like good Scothinus, had he reached his hand, + He might have plucked a garland from the wave. + +And now the noon in purple splendour blazed, + The gorgeous clouds in slow procession filed; +The youth leaned o'er with listless eyes and gazed + Down through the waves on which the blue heavens smiled: +What sudden fear his gasping breath doth drown! + What hidden wonder fires his startled eyes! +Down in the deep, full many a fathom down, + A great and glorious city buried lies. + +Not like those villages with rude-built walls, + That raise their humble roofs round every coast, +But holding marble basilics and halls, + Such as imperial Rome herself might boast. +There was the palace and the poor man's home, + And upstart glitter and old-fashioned gloom, +The spacious porch, the nicely rounded dome, + The hero's column, and the martyr's tomb. + +There was the cromleach with its circling stones; + There the green rath and the round narrow tower; +There was the prison whence the captive's groans + Had many a time moaned in the midnight hour. +Beneath the graceful arch the river flowed, + Around the walls the sparkling waters ran, +The golden chariot rolled along the road-- + All, all was there except the face of man. + +The wondering youth had neither thought nor word, + He felt alone the power and will to die; +His little bark seemed like an outstretched bird, + Floating along that city's azure sky. +It joyed that youth the battle's storm to brave, + And yet he would have perished with affright, +Had not the breeze, rippling the lucid wave, + Concealed the buried city from his sight. + +He reached the shore; the rumour was too true-- + Ethna--his Ethna--would be God's alone +In one brief month; for which the maid withdrew, + To seek for strength before his blessed throne. +Was it the fire that on his bosom preyed, + Or the temptation of the Fiend abhorred, +That made him vow to snatch the white-veiled maid + Even from the very altar of her Lord? + +The first of June, that festival of flowers, + Came, like a goddess, o'er the meadows green! +And all the children of the spring-tide showers + Rose from their grassy beds to hail their Queen. +A song of joy, a paean of delight, + Rose from the myriad life in the tall grass, +When the young Dawn, fresh from the sleep of night, + Glanced at her blushing face in Ocean's glass. + +Ethna awoke--a second--brighter dawn-- + Her mother's fondling voice breathed in her ear; +Quick from her couch she started as a fawn + Bounds from the heather when her dam is near. +Each clasped the other in a long embrace-- + Each know the other's heart did beat and bleed-- +Each kissed the warm tears from the other's face, + And gave the consolation she did need. + +Oh! bitterest sacrifice the heart can make-- + That of a mother of her darling child-- +That of a child, who, for her Saviour's sake, + Leaves the fond face that o'er her cradle smiled. +They who may think that God doth never need + So great, so sad a sacrifice as this, +While they take glory in their easier creed, + Will feel and own the sacrifice it is. + +All is prepared--the sisters in the choir-- + The mitred abbot on his crimson throne-- +The waxen tapers, with their pallid fire + Poured o'er the sacred cup and altar-stone-- +The upturned eyes, glistening with pious tears-- + The censer's fragrant vapour floating o'er; +Now all is hushed, for, lo! the maid appears, + Entering with solemn step the sacred door. + +She moved as moves the moon, radiant and pale, + Through the calm night, wrapped in a silvery cloud; +The jewels of her dress shone through her veil, + As shine the stars through their thin vaporous shroud; +The brighter jewels of her eyes were hid + Beneath their smooth white caskets arching o'er, +Which, by the trembling of each ivory lid, + Seemed conscious of the treasures that they bore. + +She reached the narrow porch and the tall door, + Her trembling foot upon the sill was placed-- +Her snowy veil swept the smooth-sanded floor-- + Her cold hands chilled the bosom they embraced. +Who is this youth, whose forehead, like a book, + Bears many a deep-traced character of pain? +Who looks for pardon as the damned may look-- + That ever pray, and know they pray in vain. + +'Tis he, the wretched youth--the Demon's prey; + One sudden bound, and he is at her side-- +One piercing shriek, and she has swooned away, + Dim are her eyes, and cold her heart's warm tide. +Horror and terror seize the startled crowd; + The sinewy hands are nerveless with affright; +When, as the wind beareth a summer cloud, + The youth bears off the maiden from their sight. + +Close to the place the stream rushed roaring by, + His little boat lay moored beneath the bank, +Hid from the shore, and from the gazer's eye, + By waving reeds and water-willows dank. +Hither, with flying feet and glowing brow, + He fled, as quick as fancies in a dream-- +Placed the insensate maiden in the prow-- + Pushed from the shore, and gained the open stream. + +Scarce had he left the river's foamy edge, + When sudden darkness fell on hill and plain; +The angry sun, shocked at the sacrilege, + Fled from the heavens with all his golden train; +The stream rushed quicker, like a man afeared; + Down swept the storm and clove its breast of green, +And though the calm and brightness reappeared + The youth and maiden never more were seen. + +Whether the current in its strong arms bore + Their bark to green Hy-Brasail's fairy halls, +Or whether, as is told along that shore, + They sunk within the buried city's walls; +Whether through some Elysian clime they stray, + Or o'er their whitened bones the river rolls;-- +Whate'er their fate, my brothers, let us pray + To God for peace and pardon to their souls. + +Such was the brother's tale of earthly love-- + He ceased, and sadly bowed his reverend head: +For us, we wept, and raised our eyes above, + And sang the 'De Profundis' for the dead. +A freshening breeze played on our moistened cheeks, + The far horizon oped its walls of light, +And lo! with purple hills and sun-bright peaks + A glorious isle gleamed on our gladdened sight, + + +THE PARADISE OF BIRDS. + +"Post resurrectionis diem dominicae navigabitis ad altam insulam ad +occidentalem plagam, quae vocatur PARADISUS AVIUM."--"Life of St. +Brendan," in Capgrave, fol. 45. + +It was the fairest and the sweetest scene-- + The freshest, sunniest, smiling land that e'er +Held o'er the waves its arms of sheltering green + Unto the sea and storm-vexed mariner:-- +No barren waste its gentle bosom scarred, + Nor suns that burn, nor breezes winged with ice, +Nor jagged rocks (Nature's grey ruins) marred + The perfect features of that Paradise. + +The verdant turf spreads from the crystal marge + Of the clear stream, up the soft-swelling hill, +Rose-bearing shrubs and stately cedars large + All o'er the land the pleasant prospect fill. +Unnumbered birds their glorious colours fling + Among the boughs that rustle in the breeze, +As if the meadow-flowers had taken wing + And settled on the green o'er-arching trees. + +Oh! Ita, Ita, 'tis a grievous wrong, + That man commits who uninspired presumes +To sing the heavenly sweetness of their song-- + To paint the glorious tinting of their plumes-- +Plumes bright as jewels that from diadems + Fling over golden thrones their diamond rays-- +Bright, even as bright as those three mystic gems, + The angel bore thee in thy childhood's days.[60] + +There dwells the bird that to the farther west + Bears the sweet message of the coming spring;[61] +June's blushing roses paint his prophet breast, + And summer skies gleam from his azure wing. +While winter prowls around the neighbouring seas, + The happy bird dwells in his cedar nest, +Then flies away, and leaves his favourite trees + Unto this brother of the graceful crest.[62] + +Birds that with us are clothed in modest brown, + There wear a splendour words cannot express; +The sweet-voiced thrush beareth a golden crown,[63] + And even the sparrow boasts a scarlet dress.[64] +There partial nature fondles and illumes + The plainest offspring that her bosom bears; +The golden robin flies on fiery plumes,[65] + And the small wren a purple ruby wears.[66] + +Birds, too, that even in our sunniest hours, + Ne'er to this cloudy land one moment stray, +Whose brilliant plumes, fleeting and fair as flowers, + Come with the flowers, and with the flowers decay.[67] +The Indian bird, with hundred eyes, that throws + From his blue neck the azure of the skies, +And his pale brother of the northern snows, + Bearing white plumes, mirrored with brilliant eyes.[68] + +Oft in the sunny mornings have I seen + Bright-yellow birds, of a rich lemon hue, +Meeting in crowds upon the branches green, + And sweetly singing all the morning through.[69] +And others, with their heads greyish and dark, + Pressing their cinnamon cheeks to the old trees, +And striking on the hard, rough, shrivelled bark, + Like conscience on a bosom ill at ease.[70] + +And diamond birds chirping their single notes, + Now 'mid the trumpet-flower's deep blossoms seen, +Now floating brightly on with fiery throats, + Small-winged emeralds of golden green;[71] +And other larger birds with orange cheeks, + A many-colour-painted chattering crowd, +Prattling for ever with their curved beaks, + And through the silent woods screaming aloud.[72] + +Colour and form may be conveyed in words, + But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains +That from the throats of these celestial birds + Rang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains. +There was the meadow-lark, with voice as sweet, + But robed in richer raiment than our own; +And as the moon smiled on his green retreat, + The painted nightingale sang out alone.[73] + +Words cannot echo music's winged note, + One bird alone exhausts their utmost power; +'Tis that strange bird whose many-voic'ed throat + Mocks all his brethren of the woodland bower; +To whom indeed the gift of tongues is given, + The musical rich tongues that fill the grove, +Now like the lark dropping his notes from heaven, + Now cooing the soft earth-notes of the dove.[74] + +Oft have I seen him, scorning all control, + Winging his arrowy flight rapid and strong, +As if in search of his evanished soul, + Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song; +And as I wandered on, and upward gazed, + Half lost in admiration, half in fear, +I left the brothers wondering and amazed, + Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near. + +Was it a revelation or a dream?-- + That these bright birds as angels once did dwell +In heaven with starry Lucifer supreme, + Half sinned with him, and with him partly fell; +That in this lesser paradise they stray. + Float through its air, and glide its streams along, +And that the strains they sing each happy day + Rise up to God like morn and even song.[75] + + +THE PROMISED LAND. + +[The earlier stanzas of this description of Paradise are principally +founded upon the Anglo-Saxon version of the poem "De Phenice," ascribed +to Lactantius, and which is at least as old as the earlier part of the +eleventh century.] + +As on this world the young man turns his eyes, + When forced to try the dark sea of the grave, +Thus did we gaze upon that Paradise, + Fading, as we were borne across the wave. +And, as a brighter world dawns by degrees + Upon Eternity's serenest strand, +Thus, having passed through dark and gloomy seas, + At length we reached the long-sought Promised Land. + +The wind had died upon the Ocean's breast, + When, like a silvery vein through the dark ore, +A smooth bright current, gliding to the west, + Bore our light bark to that enchanted shore. +It was a lovely plain--spacious and fair, + And bless'd with all delights that earth can hold, +Celestial odours filled the fragrant air + That breathed around that green and pleasant wold. + +There may not rage of frost, nor snow, nor rain, + Injure the smallest and most delicate flower, +Nor fall of hail wound the fair, healthful plain, + Nor the warm weather, nor the winter's shower. +That noble land is all with blossoms flowered, + Shed by the summer breezes as they pass; +Less leaves than blossoms on the trees are showered, + And flowers grow thicker in the fields than grass. + +Nor hills, nor mountains, there stand high and steep, + Nor stony cliffs tower o'er the frightened waves, +Nor hollow dells, where stagnant waters sleep, + Nor hilly risings, nor dark mountain caves; +Nothing deformed upon its bosom lies, + Nor on its level breast rests aught unsmooth, +But the noble filed flourishes 'neath the skies, + Blooming for ever in perpetual youth. + +That glorious land stands higher o'er the sea, + By twelve-fold fathom measure, than we deem +The highest hills beneath the heavens to be. + There the bower glitters, and the green woods gleam. +All o'er that pleasant plain, calm and serene, + The fruits ne'er fall, but, hung by God's own hand, +Cling to the trees that stand for ever green, + Obedient to their Maker's first command. + +Summer and winter are the woods the same, + Hung with bright fruits and leaves that never fade; +Such will they be, beyond the reach of flame, + Till Heaven, and Earth, and Time, shall have decayed. +Here might Iduna in her fond pursuit, + As fabled by the northern sea-born men, +Gather her golden and immortal fruit, + That brings their youth back to the gods again. + +Of old, when God, to punish sinful pride, + Sent round the deluged world the ocean flood, +When all the earth lay 'neath the vengeful tide, + This glorious land above the waters stood. +Such shall it be at last, even as at first, + Until the coming of the final doom, +When the dark chambers--men's death homes shall burst, + And man shall rise to judgment from the tomb. + +There there is never enmity, nor rage, + Nor poisoned calumny, nor envy's breath, +Nor shivering poverty, nor decrepit age, + Nor loss of vigour, nor the narrow death; +Nor idiot laughter, nor the tears men weep, + Nor painful exile from one's native soil, +Nor sin, nor pain, nor weariness, nor sleep, + Nor lust of riches, nor the poor man's toil. + +There never falls the rain-cloud as with us, + Nor gapes the earth with the dry summer's thirst, +But liquid streams, wondrously curious, + Out of the ground with fresh fair bubbling burst. +Sea-cold and bright the pleasant waters glide + Over the soil, and through the shady bowers; +Flowers fling their coloured radiance o'er the tide, + And the bright streams their crystal o'er the flowers. + +Such was the land for man's enjoyment made, + When from this troubled life his soul doth wend: +Such was the land through which entranced we strayed, + For fifteen days, nor reached its bound nor end. +Onward we wandered in a blissful dream, + Nor thought of food, nor needed earthly rest; +Until, at length, we reached a mighty stream, + Whose broad bright waves flowed from the east to west. + +We were about to cross its placid tide, + When, lo! an angel on our vision broke, +Clothed in white, upon the further side + He stood majestic, and thus sweetly spoke: +"Father, return, thy mission now is o'er; + God, who did call thee here, now bids thee go, +Return in peace unto thy native shore, + And tell the mighty secrets thou dost know. + +"In after years, in God's own fitting time, + This pleasant land again shall re-appear; +And other men shall preach the truths sublime, + To the benighted people dwelling here. +But ere that hour this land shall all be made, + For mortal man, a fitting, natural home, +Then shall the giant mountain fling its shade, + And the strong rock stem the white torrent's foam. + +"Seek thy own isle--Christ's newly-bought domain, + Which Nature with an emerald pencil paints: +Such as it is, long, long shall it remain, + The school of Truth, the College of the Saints, +The student's bower, the hermit's calm retreat, + The stranger's home, the hospitable hearth, +The shrine to which shall wander pilgrim feet + From all the neighbouring nations of the earth. + +"But in the end upon that land shall fall + A bitter scourge, a lasting flood of tears, +When ruthless tyranny shall level all + The pious trophies of its early years: +Then shall this land prove thy poor country's friend, + And shine a second Eden in the west; +Then shall this shore its friendly arms extend, + And clasp the outcast exile to its breast." + +He ceased and vanished from our dazzled sight, + While harps and sacred hymns rang sweetly o'er +For us again we winged our homeward flight + O'er the great ocean to our native shore; +And as a proof of God's protecting hand, + And of the wondrous tidings that we bear, +The fragrant perfume of that heavenly land + Clings to the very garments that we wear.[76] + + +53. So called from the number of holy men and women formerly inhabiting +it. + +54. The Atlantic was so named by the ancient Irish. + +55. Ardfert. + +56. The puffin (Anas leucopsis), called in Irish 'girrinna.' It was +the popular belief that these birds grew out of driftwood. + +57. St. Fanchea. + +58. Galway Bay. + +59. These stanzas are a paraphrase of the hymn "Ave Maris Stella." + +60. An angel was said to have presented her with three precious stones, +which, he explained, were emblematic of the Blessed Trinity, by whom she +would be always visited and protected. + +61. The blue bird. + +62. The cedar bird. + +63. The golden-crowned thrush. + +64. The scarlet sparrow or tanager. + +65. The Baltimore oriole or fire-bird. + +66. The ruby-crowned wren. + +67. Peacocks. + +68. The white peacock. + +69. The yellow bird or goldfinch. + +70. The gold-winged woodpecker. + +71. Humming birds. + +72. The Carolina parrot. + +73. The grosbeak or red bird, sometimes called the Virginia +nightingale. + +74. The mocking-bird. + +75. See the "Lyfe of Saynt Brandon" in the Golden Legend, published by +Wynkyn de Worde, 1483; fol. 357. + +76. "Nonne cognoscitis in odore vestimentorum nostrorum quod in +Paradiso Domini fuimus."--Colgan. + + + +THE FORAY OF CON O'DONNELL. +A.D. 1495. + +[Con, the son of Hugh Roe O'Donnell, with his small-powerful force,--and +the reason Con's force was called the small-powerful force was, because +he was always in the habit of mustering a force which did not exceed +twelve score of well-equipped and experienced battle-axe-men, and sixty +chosen active horsemen, fit for battle,--marched with the forementioned +force to the residence of MacJohn of the Glynnes (in the county of +Antrim); for Con had been informed that MacJohn had in possession the +finest woman, steed, and hound, of any other person in his +neighbourhood. He sent a messenger for the steed before that time, and +was refused, although Con had, at the same time, promised it to one of +his own people. Con did not delay, and got over every difficult pass +with his small-powerful force, without battle or obstruction, until he +arrived in the night at the house of MacJohn, whom he, in the first +place, took prisoner, and his wife, steed, and hound, and all his +property, were under Con's control, for he found the same steed, with +sixteen others, in the town on that occasion. All the Glynnes were +plundered on the following day by Con's people, but he afterwards, +however, made perfect restitution of all property, to whomsoever it +belonged, to MacJohn's wife, and he set her husband free to her after he +had passed the Bann westward. He brought with him the steed and great +booty and spoils, into Tirhugh, and ordered the cattle-prey to be let +out on the pasturage.--"Annals of the Four Masters," translated by Owen +Connellan, Esq., p. 331-2. This poem, founded upon the foregoing +passage (and in which the hero acts with more generosity than the Annals +warrant) was written and published in the Dublin University Magazine +before the appearance of Mr. O'Donovan's "Annals of the Kingdom of +Ireland,"--the magnificent work published in 1848 by Messrs. Hodges and +Smith, of this city. For Mr. O'Donovan's version of this passage, which +differs from that of the former translator in two or three important +particulars, see the second volume of his work, p. 1219. The principal +castle of the O'Donnell's was at Donegal. The building, of which some +portions still exist, was erected in the twelfth century. The +banqueting-hall, which is the scene of the opening portion of this +ballad, is still preserved, and commands some beautiful views.] + +The evening shadows sweetly fall +Along the hills of Donegal, +Sweetly the rising moonbeams play +Along the shores of Inver Bay,[77] +As smooth and white Lough Eask[78] expands +As Rosapenna's[79] silvery sands, +And quiet reigns all o'er thy fields, +Clan Dalaigh[80] of the golden shields. + +The fairy gun[81] is heard no more +To boom within the cavern'd shore, +With smoother roll the torrents flow +Adown the rocks of Assaroe;[82] +Securely, till the coming day, +The red deer couch in far Glenvay, +And all is peace and calm around +O'Donnell's castled moat and mound. + +But in the hall there feast to-night +Full many a kern and many a knight, +And gentle dames, and clansmen strong, +And wandering bards, with store of song: +The board is piled with smoking kine, +And smooth bright cups of Spanish wine, +And fish and fowl from stream and shaw, +And fragrant mead and usquebaugh. + +The chief is at the table's head-- +'Tis Con, the son of Hugh the Red-- +The heir of Conal Golban's line;[83] +With pleasure flushed, with pride and wine, +He cries, "Our dames adjudge it wrong, +To end our feast without the song; +Have we no bard the strain to raise? +No foe to taunt, no maid to praise? + +"Where beauty dwells the bard should dwell, +What sweet lips speak the bard should tell; +'Tis he should look for starry eyes, +And tell love's watchers where they rise: +To-night, if lips and eyes could do, +Bards were not wanting in Tirhugh; +For where have lips a rosier light, +And where are eyes more starry bright?" + +Then young hearts beat along the board, +To praise the maid that each adored, +And lips as young would fain disclose +The love within; but one arose, +Gray as the rocks beside the main,-- +Gray as the mist upon the plain,-- +A thoughtful, wandering, minstrel man, +And thus the aged bard began:-- + +"O Con, benevolent hand of peace! + O tower of valour firm and true! +Like mountain fawns, like snowy fleece, + Move the sweet maidens of Tirhugh. +Yet though through all thy realm I've strayed, + Where green hills rise and white waves fall, +I have not seen so fair a maid + As once I saw by Cushendall.[84] + +"O Con, thou hospitable Prince! + Thou, of the open heart and hand, +Full oft I've seen the crimson tints + Of evening on the western land. +I've wandered north, I've wandered south, + Throughout Tirhugh in hut and hall, +But never saw so sweet a mouth + As whispered love by Cushendall. + +"O Con, munificent gifts! + I've seen the full round harvest moon +Gleam through the shadowy autumn drifts + Upon thy royal rock of Doune.[85] +I've seen the stars that glittering lie + O'er all the night's dark mourning pall, +But never saw so bright an eye + As lit the glens of Cushendall. + +"I've wandered with a pleasant toil, + And still I wander in my dreams; +Even from the white-stoned beach, Loch Foyle, + To Desmond of the flowing streams. +I've crossed the fair green plains of Meath, + To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall; +But never saw such pearly teeth, + As her's that smiled by Cushendall. + +"O Con! thou'rt rich in yellow gold, + Thy fields are filled with lowing kine, +Within they castles wealth untold, + Within thy harbours fleets of wine; +But yield not, Con, to worldly pride + Thou may'st be rich, but hast not all; +Far richer he who for his bride + Has won fair Anne of Cushendall. + +"She leans upon a husband's arm, + Surrounded by a valiant clan, +In Antrim's Glynnes, by fair Glenarm, + Beyond the pearly-paven Bann; +'Mid hazel woods no stately tree + Looks up to heaven more graceful-tall, +When summer clothes its boughs, than she, + MacDonnell's wife of Cushendall!" + +The bard retires amid the throng, +No sweet applause rewards his song, +No friendly lip that guerdon breathes, +To bard more sweet than golden wreaths. +It might have been the minstrel's art +Had lost the power to move the heart, +It might have been his harp had grown +Too old to yield its wonted tone. + +But no, if hearts were cold and hard, +'Twas not the fault of harp or bard; +It was no false or broken sound +That failed to move the clansmen round. +Not these the men, nor these the times, +To nicely weigh the worth of rhymes; +'Twas what he said that made them chill, +And not his singing well or ill. + +Already had the stranger band +Of Saxons swept the weakened land, +Already on the neighbouring hills +They named anew a thousand rills, +"Our fairest castles," pondered Con, +"Already to the foe are gone, +Our noblest forests feed the flame, +And now we lose our fairest dame." + +But though his cheek was white with rage, +He seemed to smile, and cried--"O Sage! +O honey-spoken bard of truth! +MacDonnell is a valiant youth. +We long have been the Saxon's prey-- +Why not the Scot as well as they? +He's of as good a robber line +As any a Burke or Geraldine. + +"From Insi Gall,[86] so speaketh fame, +From Insi Gall his people came; +From Insi Gall, where storm winds roar +Beyond the gray Albin's icy shore. +His grandsire and his grandsire's son, +Full soon fat herds and pastures won; +But, by Columba! were we men, +We'd send the whole brood back again! + +"Oh! had we iron hands to dare, +As we have waxen hearts to bear, +Oh! had we manly blood to shed, +Or even to tinge our cheeks with red, +No bard could say as you have said, +One of the race of Somerled-- +A base intruder from the Isles-- +Basks in our island's sunniest smiles! + +"But, not to mar our feast to-night +With what to-morrow's sword may right, +O Bard of many songs! again +Awake thy sweet harp's silvery strain. +If beauty decks with peerless charm +MacDonnell's wife in fair Glenarm, +Say does there bound in Antrim's meads +A steed to match O'Donnell's steeds?" + +Submissive doth the bard incline + His reverend head, and cries, "O Con, +Thou heir of Conal Golban's line, + I've sang the fair wife of MacJohn; +You'll frown again as late you frowned, + But truth will out when lips are freed; +There's not a steed on Irish ground + To stand beside MacDonnell's steed! + +"Thy horses o'er Eargals' plains, + Like meteors stars their red eyes gleam; +With silver hoofs and broidered reins, + They mount the hill and swim the stream; +But like the wind through Barnesmore, + Or white-maned wave through Carrig-Rede,[87] +Or like a sea-bird to the shore, + Thus swiftly sweeps MacDonnell's steed! + +"A thousand graceful steeds had Fin, + Within lost Almhaim's fairy hall, +A thousand steeds as sleek of skin + As ever graced a chieftain's stall. +With gilded bridles oft they flew, + Young eagles in their lightning speed, +Strong as the cataract of Hugh,[88] + So swift and strong MacDonnell's steed!" + +Without the hearty word of praise, +Without the kindly smiling gaze, +Without the friendly hand to greet, +The daring bard resumes his seat. +Even in the hospitable face +Of Con, the anger you could trace. +But generous Con his wrath suppressed, +For Owen was Clan Dalaigh's guest. + +"Now, by Columba!" Con exclaimed, +"Methinks this Scot should be ashamed +To snatch at once, in sateless greed, +The fairest maid and finest steed; +My realm is dwindled in mine eyes, +I know not what to praise or prize, +And even my noble dog, O Bard, +Now seems unworthy my regard!" + +"When comes the raven of the sea + To nestle on an alien strand, +Oh! ever, ever will he be + The master of the subject land. +The fairest dame, he holdeth her-- + For him the noblest steed doth bound--; +Your dog is but a household cur, + Compared to John MacDonnell's hound! + +"As fly the shadows o'er the grass, + He flies with step as light and sure, +He hunts the wolf through Trosstan pass, + And starts the deer by Lisanoure! +The music of the Sabbath bells, + O Con, has not a sweeter sound +Than when along the valley swells + The cry of John MacDonnell's hound. + +"His stature tall, his body long, + His back like night, his breast like snow, +His fore-leg pillar-like and strong, + His hind-leg like a bended bow; +Rough, curling hair, head long and thin, + His ear a leaf so small and round: +Not Bran, the favourite hound of Fin, + Could rival John MacDonnell's hound. + +"O Con! thy bard will sing no more, + There is a fearful time at hand; +The Scot is on the northern shore, + The Saxon in the eastern land; +The hour comes on with quicker flight, + When all who live on Irish ground +Must render to the stranger's might + Both maid and wife, and steed and hound!" + +The trembling bard again retires, +But now he lights a thousand fires; +The pent-up flame bursts out at length, +In all its burning, tameless strength. +You'd think each clansman's foe was by, +So sternly flashed each angry eye; +You'd think 'twas in the battle's clang +O'Donnell's thundering accents rang! + +"No! by my sainted kinsman,[89] no! +This foul disgrace must not be so; +No, by the Shrines of Hy, I've sworn, +This foulest wrong must not be borne. +A better steed!--a fairer wife! +Was ever truer cause of strife? +A swifter hound!--a better steed! +Columba! these are cause indeed!" + +Again, like spray from mountain rill, +Up started Con: "By Collum Kille, +And by the blessed light of day, +This matter brooketh no delay. +The moon is down, the morn is up, +Come, kinsmen, drain a parting cup, +And swear to hold our next carouse, +With John MacJohn MacDonnell's spouse! + +"We've heard the song the bard has sung, +And as a healing herb among +Most poisonous weeds may oft be found, +So of this woman, steed, and hound; +The song has burned into our hearts, +And yet a lesson it imparts, +Had we but sense to read aright +The galling words we heard to-night. + +"What lesson does the good hound teach? +Oh, to be faithful each to each! +What lesson gives the noble steed? +Oh! to be swift in thought and deed! +What lesson gives the peerless wife? +Oh! there is victory after strife; +Sweet is the triumph, rich the spoil, +Pleasant the slumber after toil!" + +They drain the cup, they leave the hall, +They seek the armoury and stall, +The shield re-echoing to the spear +Proclaims the foray far and near; +And soon around the castles gate +Full sixty steeds impatient wait, +And every steed a knight upon, +The strong, small-powerful force of Con! + +Their lances in the red dawn flash, +As down by Easky's side they dash; +Their quilted jackets shine the more, +From gilded leather broidered o'er; +With silver spurs, and silken rein, +And costly riding-shoes from Spain; +Ah! much thou hast to fear, MacJohn, +The strong, small-powerful force of Con! + +As borne upon autumnal gales, +Wild whirring gannets pierce the sails +Of barks that sweep by Arran's shore,[90] +Thus swept the train through Barnesmore. +Through many a varied scene they ran, +By Castle Fin, and fair Strabane, +By many a hill, and many a clan, +Across the Foyle and o'er the Bann:-- + +Then stopping in their eagle flight, +They waited for the coming night, +And then, as Antrim's rivers rush +Straight from their founts with sudden gush, +Nor turn their strong, brief streams aside, +Until the sea receives their tide; +Thus rushed upon the doomed MacJohn +The swift, small-powerful force of Con. + +They took the castle by surprise, +No star was in the angry skies, +The moon lay dead within her shroud +Of thickly-folded ashen cloud; +They found the steed within his stall, +The hound within the oaken hall, +The peerless wife of thousand charms, +Within her slumbering husband's arms: + +The bard had pictured to the life +The beauty of MacDonnell's wife; +Not Evir[91] could with her compare +For snowy hand and shining hair; +The glorious banner morn unfurls +Were dark beside her golden curls; +And yet the blackness of her eye +Was darker than the moonless sky! + +If lovers listen to my lay, +Description is but thrown away; +If lovers read this antique tale, +What need I speak of red or pale? +The fairest form and brightest eye +Are simply those for which they sigh; +The truest picture is but faint +To what a lover's heart can paint. + +Well, she was fair, and Con was bold, +But in the strange, wild days of old; +To one rough hand was oft decreed +The noblest and the blackest deed. +'Twas pride that spurred O'Donnell on, +But still a generous heart had Con; +He wished to show that he was strong, +And not to do a bootless wrong. + +But now there's neither thought nor time +For generous act or bootless crime; +For other cares the thoughts demand +Of the small-powerful victor band. +They tramp along the old oak floors, +They burst the strong-bound chamber doors; +In all the pride of lawless power, +Some seek the vault, and some the tower. + +And some from out the postern pass, +And find upon the dew-wet grass +Full many a head of dappled deer, +And many a full-ey'd brown-back'd steer, +And heifers of the fragrant skins, +The pride of Antrim's grassy glynns, +Which with their spears they drive along, +A numerous, startled, bellowing throng. + +They leave the castle stripped and bare, +Each has his labour, each his share; +For some have cups, and some have plate, +And some have scarlet cloaks of state, +And some have wine, and some have ale, +And some have coats of iron mail, +And some have helms, and some have spears, +And all have lowing cows and steers! + +Away! away! the morning breaks +O'er Antrim's hundred hills and lakes; +Away! away! the dawn begins +To gild gray Antrim's deepest glynns; +The rosy steeds of morning stop, +As if to gaze on Collin top; +Ere they have left it bare and gray, +O'Donnell must be far away! + +The chieftain on a raven steed, +Himself the peerless dame doth lead, +Now like a pallid, icy corse, +And lifts her on her husband's horse; +His left hand holds his captive's rein, +His right is on the black steed's mane, +And from the bridle to the ground +Hangs the long leash that binds the hound. + +And thus before his victor clan, +Rides Con O'Donnell in the van; +Upon his left the drooping dame, +Upon his right, in wrath and shame, +With one hand free and one hand tied, +And eyes firm fixed upon his bride, +Vowing dread vengeance yet on Con, +Rides scowling, silent, stern MacJohn. + +They move with steps as swift as still, +'Twixt Collin mount and Slemish hill, +They glide along the misty plain, +And ford the sullen muttering Maine; +Some drive the cattle o'er the hills, +And some along the dried-up rills; +But still a strong force doth surround +The chiefs, the dame, the steed, and hound. + +Thus ere the bright-faced day arose, +The Bann lay broad between the foes. +But how to paint the inward scorn, +The self-reproach of those that morn, +Who waking found their chieftain gone, +The cattle swept from field and bawn, +The chieftain's castle stormed and drained, +And, worse than all, their honour stained! + +But when the women heard that Anne, +The queen, the glory of the clan +Was carried off by midnight foes, +Heavens! such despairing screams arose, +Such shrieks of agony and fright, +As only can be heard at night, +When Clough-i-Stookan's mystic rock +The wail of drowning men doth mock.[92] + +But thirty steeds are in the town, +And some are like the ripe heath, brown, +Some like the alder-berries, black, +Some like the vessel's foamy track; +But be they black, or brown, or white, +They are as swift as fawns in flight, +No quicker speed the sea gull hath +When sailing through the Gray Man's Path.[93] + +Soon are they saddled, soon they stand, +Ready to own the rider's hand, +Ready to dash with loosened rein +Up the steep hill, and o'er the plain; +Ready, without the prick of spurs, +To strike the gold cups from the furze: +And now they start with winged pace, +God speed them in their noble chase! + +By this time, on Ben Bradagh's height, +Brave Con had rested in his flight, +Beneath him, in the horizon's blue, +Lay his own valleys of Tirhugh. +It may have been the thought of home, +While resting on that mossy dome, +It may have been his native trees +That woke his mind to thoughts like these. + +"The race is o'er, the spoil is won, +And yet what boots it all I've done? +What boots it to have snatched away +This steed, and hound, and cattle-prey? +What boots it, with an iron hand +To tear a chieftain from his land, +And dim that sweetest light that lies +In a fond wife's adoring eyes? + +"If thus I madly teach my clan, +What can I hope from beast or man? +Fidelity a crime is found, +Or else why chain this faithful hound? +Obedience, too, a crime must be, +Or else this steed were roaming free; +And woman's love the worst of sins, +Or Anne were queen of Antrim's Glynnes! + +"If, when I reach my home to-night, +I see the yellow moonbeam's light +Gleam through the broken gate and wall +Of my strong fort of Donegal; +If I behold my kinsmen slain, +My barns devoid of golden grain, +How can I curse the pirate crew +For doing what this hour I do? + +"Well, in Columba's blessed name, +This day shall be a day of fame,-- +A day when Con in victory's hour +Gave up the untasted sweets of power; +Gave up the fairest dame on earth, +The noblest steed that e'er wore girth, +The noblest hound of Irish breed, +And all to do a generous deed." + +He turned and loosed MacDonnell's hand, +And led him where his steed doth stand; +He placed the bride of peerless charms +Within his longing, outstretched arms; +He freed the hound from chain and band, +Which, leaping, licked his master's hand; +And thus, while wonder held the crowd, +The generous chieftain spoke aloud:-- + +"MacJohn, I heard in wrathful hour + That thou in Antrim's glynnes possessed +The fairest pearl, the sweetest flower + That ever bloomed on Erin's breast. +I burned to think such prize should fall + To any Scotch or Saxon man, +But find that Nature makes us all + The children of one world-spread clan. + +"Within thy arms thou now dost hold + A treasure of more worth and cost +Than all the thrones and crowns of gold + That valour ever won or lost; +Thine is that outward perfect form, + Thine, too, the subtler inner life, +The love that doth that bright shape warm: + Take back, MacJohn, thy peerless wife!" + +"They praised thy steed. With wrath and grief + I felt my heart within me bleed, +That any but an Irish chief + Should press the back of such a steed; +I might to yonder smiling land + The noble beast reluctant lead; +But, no!--he'd miss thy guiding hand-- + Take back, MacJohn, thy noble steed. + +"The praises of thy matchless hound, + Burned in my breast like acrid wine; +I swore no chief on Irish ground + Should own a nobler hound than mine; +'Twas rashly sworn, and must not be, + He'd pine to hear the well-known sound, +With which thou call'st him to thy knee, + Take back, MacJohn, thy matchless hound. + +"MacJohn, I stretch to yours and you + This hand beneath God's blessed sun, +And for the wrong that I might do + Forgive the wrong that I have done; +To-morrow all that we have ta'en + Shall doubly, trebly be restored: +The cattle to the grassy plain, + The goblets to the oaken board. + +"My people from our richest meads + Shall drive the best our broad lands hold +For every steed a hundred steeds, + For every steer a hundred-fold; +For every scarlet cloak of state + A hundred cloaks all stiff with gold; +And may we be with hearts elate + Still older friends as we grow old. + +"Thou'st bravely won an Irish bride-- + An Irish bride of grace and worth-- +Oh! let the Irish nature glide + Into thy heart from this hour forth; +An Irish home thy sword has won, + A new-found mother blessed the strife; +Oh! be that mother's fondest son, + And love the land that gives you life! + +"Betwixt the Isles and Antrim's coast, + The Scotch and Irish waters blend; +But who shall tell, with idle boast, + Where one begins and one doth end? +Ah! when shall that glad moment gleam, + When all our hearts such spell shall feel? +And blend in one broad Irish stream, + On Irish ground for Ireland's weal? + +"Love the dear land in which you live, + Live in the land you ought to love; +Take root, and let your branches give + Fruits to the soil they wave above; +No matter what your foreign name, + No matter what your sires have done, +No matter whence or when you came, + The land shall claim you as a son!" + +As in the azure fields on high, +When Spring lights up the April sky, +The thick battalioned dusky clouds +Fly o'er the plain like routed crowds +Before the sun's resistless might! +Where all was dark, now all is bright; +The very clouds have turned to light, +And with the conquering beams unite! + +Thus o'er the face of John MacJohn +A thousand varying shades have gone; +Jealousy, anger, rage, disdain, +Sweep o'er his brow--a dusky train; +But nature, like the beam of spring, +Chaseth the crowd on sunny wing; +Joy warms his heart, hope lights his eye, +And the dark passions routed fly! + +The hands are clasped--the hound is freed, +Gone is MacJohn with wife and steed, +He meets his spearsmen some few miles, +And turns their scowling frowns to smiles: +At morn the crowded march begins +Of steeds and cattle for the glynnes; +Well for poor Erin's wrongs and griefs, +If thus would join her severed chiefs! + + +77. A beautiful inlet, about six miles west of Donegal. + +78. Lough Eask is about two miles from Donegal. Inglis describes it as +being as pretty a lake, on a small scale, as can well be imagined. + +79. The sands of Rosapenna are described as being composed of "hills +and dales, and undulating swells, smooth, solitary, and desolate, +reflecting the sun from their polished surface," &c. + +80. "Clan Dalaigh" is a name frequently given by Irish writers to the +Clan O'Donnell. + +81. The "Fairy Gun" is an orifice in a cliff near Bundoran (four miles +S.W. of Ballyshannon), into which the sea rushes with a noise like that +of artillery, and from which mist, and a chanting sound, issue in stormy +weather. + +82. The waterfall at Ballyshannon. + +83. The O'Donnells are descended from Conal Golban, son of Niall of the +Nine Hostages. + +84. Cushendall is very prettily situated on the eastern coast of the +county Antrim. This, with all the territory known as the "Glynnes" (so +called from the intersection of its surface by many rocky dells), from +Glenarm to Ballycastle, was at this time in the possession of the +MacDonnells, a clan of Scotch descent. The principal castle of the +MacDonnells was at Glenarm. + +85. The Rock of Doune, in Kilmacrenan, where the O'Donnells were +inaugurated. + +86. The Hebrides. + +87. Carrick-a-rede (Carraig-a-Ramhad)--the Rock in the Road lies off +the coast, between Ballycastle and Portrush; a chasm sixty feet in +breadth, and very deep, separates it from the coast. + +88. The waterfall of Assaroe, at Ballyshannon. + +89. St. Columba, who was an O'Donnell. + +90. "This bird (the Gannet) flys through the ship's sails, piercing +them with his beak."--O'Flaherty's "H-Iar Connaught," p. 12, published +by the Irish Archaeological Society. + +91. She was the wife of Oisin, the bard, who is said to have lived and +sung for some time at Cushendall, and to have been buried at Donegal. + +92. The Rock of Clough-i-Stookan lies on the shore between Glenarm and +Cushendall; it has some resemblance to a gigantic human figure.--"The +winds whistle through its crevices like the wailing of mariners in +distress."--Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii., p. 133. + +93. "The Gray Man's Path" (Casan an fir Leith) is a deep and remarkable +chasm, dividing the promontory of Fairhead (or Benmore) in two. + + + +THE BELL-FOUNDER. + + +PART I.--LABOUR AND HOPE. + +In that land where the heaven-tinted pencil giveth shape to the + splendour of dreams, +Near Florence, the fairest of cities, and Arno, the sweetest of streams, +'Neath those hills[94] whence the race of the Geraldine wandered in ages + long since, +For ever to rule over Desmond and Erin as martyr and prince, +Lived Paolo, the young Campanaro,[95] the pride of his own little vale-- +Hope changed the hot breath of his furnace as into a sea-wafted gale; +Peace, the child of Employment, was with him, with prattle so soothing + and sweet, +And Love, while revealing the future, strewed the sweet roses under his + feet. + +Ah! little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills, +Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills. +Ah! little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased slumber enjoys, +Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that + destroys, +Nothing to hope for, or labour for; nothing to sigh for, or gain; +Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain; +Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with its breath: +Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, and death! + +But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men, +Who, with hammer, or chisel, or pencil, with rudder, or ploughshare, or + pen, +Laboureth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life, +Winning home and its darling divinities--love-worshipped children and + wife, +Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the sharp chisel rings, +And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of + kings; +He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his race, +Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the strong world in the + face. + +And such was young Paolo! The morning, ere yet the faint starlight had + gone, +To the loud-ringing workshop beheld him move joyfully light-footed on. +In the glare and the roar of the furnace he toiled till the evening star + burned, +And then back again through that valley, as glad but more weary + returned. +One moment at morning he lingers by that cottage that stands by the + stream, +Many moments at evening he tarries by that casement that woos the moon's + beam; +For the light of his life and his labours, like a lamp from that + casement shines +In the heart-lighted face that looks out from that purple-clad trellis + of vines. + +Francesca! sweet, innocent maiden! 'tis not that thy young cheek is + fair, +Or thy sun-lighted eyes glance like stars through the curls of thy + wind-woven hair; +'Tis not for thy rich lips of coral, or even thy white breast of snow, +That my song shall recall thee, Francesca! but more for the good heart + below. +Goodness is beauty's best portion, a dower that no time can reduce, +A wand of enchantment and happiness, brightening and strengthening with + use. +One the long-sigh'd-for nectar that earthliness bitterly tinctures and + taints: +One the fading mirage of the fancy, and one the elysium it paints. + +Long ago, when thy father would kiss thee, the tears in his old eyes + would start, +For thy face--like a dream of his boyhood--renewed the fresh youth of + his heart; +He is gone; but thy mother remaineth, and kneeleth each night-time and + morn, +And blesses the Mother of Blessings for the hour her Francesca was born. +There are proud stately dwellings in Florence, and mothers and maidens + are there, +And bright eyes as bright as Francesca's, and fair cheeks as brilliantly + fair; +And hearts, too, as warm and as innocent, there where the rich paintings + gleam, +But what proud mother blesses her daughter like the mother by Arno's + sweet stream? + +It was not alone when that mother grew aged and feeble to hear, +That thy voice like the whisper of angels still fell on the old woman's + ear, +Or even that thy face, when the darkness of time overshadowed her sight, +Shone calm through the blank of her mind, like the moon in the midst of + the night. +But thine was the duty, Francesca, and the love-lightened labour was + thine, +To treasure the white-curling wool and the warm-flowing milk of the + kine, +And the fruits, and the clusters of purple, and the flock's tender + yearly increase, +That she might have rest in life's evening, and go to her Father in + peace. + +Francesca and Paolo are plighted, and they wait but a few happy days, +Ere they walk forth together in trustfulness out on Life's wonderful + ways; +Ere, clasping the hands of each other, they move through the stillness + and noise, +Dividing the cares of existence, but doubling its hopes and its joys. +Sweet days of betrothment, which brighten so slowly to love's burning + noon, +Like the days of the spring which grow longer, the nearer the fulness of + June, +Though ye move to the noon and the summer of Love with a slow-moving + wing, +Ye are lit with the light of the morning, and decked with the blossoms + of spring. + +The days of betrothment are over, for now when the evening star shines, +Two faces look joyfully out from that purple-clad trellis of vines; +The light-hearted laughter is doubled, two voices steal forth on the + air, +And blend in the light notes of song, or the sweet solemn cadence of + prayer. +At morning when Paolo departeth, 'tis out of that sweet cottage door, +At evening he comes to that casement, but passes that casement no more; +And the old feeble mother at night-time, when saying, "The Lord's will + be done," +While blessing the name of a daughter, now blendeth the name of a son. + + +PART II.--TRIUMPH AND REWARD. + +In the furnace the dry branches crackle, the crucible shines as with + gold, +As they carry the hot flaming metal in haste from the fire to the mould; +Loud roars the bellows, and louder the flames as they shrieking escape, +And loud is the song of the workmen who watch o'er the fast-filling + shape; +To and fro in the red-glaring chamber the proud master anxiously moves, +And the quick and the skilful he praiseth, and the dull and the laggard + reproves; +And the heart in his bosom expandeth, as the thick bubbling metal up + swells, +For like to the birth of his children he watcheth the birth of the + bells. + +Peace had guarded the door of young Paolo, success on his industry + smiled, +And the dark wing of Time had passed quicker than grief from the face of + a child; +Broader lands lay around that sweet cottage, younger footsteps tripped + lightly around, +And the sweet silent stillness was broken by the hum of a still sweeter + sound. +At evening when homeward returning how many dear hands must he press, +Where of old at that vine-covered wicket he lingered but one to caress; +And that dearest one is still with him, to counsel, to strengthen, and + calm, +And to pour over Life's needful wounds the healing of Love's blessed + balm. + +But age will come on with its winter, though happiness hideth its snows; +And if youth has its duty of labour, the birthright of age is repose: +And thus from that love-sweetened toil, which the heavens had so + prospered and blest, +The old Campanaro will go to that vine-covered cottage to rest; +But Paolo is pious and grateful, and vows as he kneels at her shrine, +To offer some fruit of his labour to Mary the Mother benign-- +Eight silver-toned bells will he offer, to toll for the quick and the + dead, +From the tower of the church of her convent that stands on the cliff + overhead. + +'Tis for this that the bellows are blowing, that the workmen their + sledge-hammers wield, +That the firm sandy moulds are now broken, and the dark-shining bells + are revealed; +The cars with their streamers are ready, and the flower-harnessed necks + of the steers, +And the bells from their cold silent workshop are borne amid blessings + and tears. +By the white-blossom'd, sweet-scented myrtles, by the olive-trees + fringing the plain, +By the corn-fields and vineyards is winding that gift-bearing, festival + train; +And the hum of their voices is blending with the music that streams on + the gale, +As they wend to the Church of our Lady that stands at the head of the + vale. + +Now they enter, and now more divinely the saints' painted effigies + smile, +Now the acolytes bearing lit tapers move solemnly down through the + aisle, +Now the thurifer swings the rich censer, and the white curling vapour + up-floats, +And hangs round the deep-pealing organ, and blends with the tremulous + notes. +In a white shining alb comes the abbot, and he circles the bells round + about, +And with oil, and with salt, and with water, they are purified inside + and out; +They are marked with Christ's mystical symbol, while the priests and the + choristers sing, +And are bless'd in the name of that God to whose honour they ever shall + ring. + +Toll, toll! with a rapid vibration, with a melody silv'ry and strong, +The bells from the sound-shaken belfry are singing their first maiden + song; +Not now for the dead or the living, or the triumphs of peace or of + strife, +But a quick joyous outburst of jubilee full of their newly-felt life; +Rapid, more rapid, the clapper rebounds from the round of the bells-- +Far and more far through the valley the intertwined melody swells-- +Quivering and broken the atmosphere trembles and twinkles around, +Like the eyes and the hearts of the hearers that glisten and beat to the + sound. + +But how to express all his rapture when echo the deep cadence bore +To the old Campanaro reclining in the shade of his vine-covered door, +How to tell of the bliss that came o'er him as he gazed on the fair + evening star, +And heard the faint toll of the vesper bell steal o'er the vale from + afar-- +Ah! it was not alone the brief ecstasy music doth ever impart +When Sorrow and Joy at its bidding come together and dwell in the heart; +But it was that delicious sensation with which the young mother is + blest, +As she lists to the laugh of her child as it falleth asleep on her + breast. + +From a sweet night of slumber he woke; but it was not that morn had + unroll'd +O'er the pale, cloudy tents of the Orient, her banners of purple and + gold: +It was not the song of the skylark that rose from the green pastures + near, +But the sound of his bells that fell softly, as dew on the slumberer's + ear. +At that sound he awoke and arose, and went forth on the bead-bearing + grass-- +At that sound, with his loving Francesca, he piously knelt at the Mass. +If the sun shone in splendour around him, and that certain music were + dumb, +He would deem it a dream of the night-time, and doubt if the morning had + come. + +At noon, as he lay in the sultriness, under his broad-leafy limes, +Far sweeter than murmuring waters came the tone of the Angelus chimes. +Pious and tranquil he rose, and uncovered his reverend head, +And thrice was the Ave Maria and thrice was the Angelus said, +Sweet custom the South still retaineth, to turn for a moment away +From the pleasures and pains of existence, from the trouble and turmoil + of day, +From the tumult within and without, to the peace that abideth on high, +When the deep, solemn sound from the belfry comes down like a voice from + the sky. + +And thus round the heart of the old man, at morning, at noon, and at + eve, +The bells, with their rich woof of music, the net-work of happiness + weave, +They ring in the clear, tranquil evening, and lo! all the air is alive, +As the sweet-laden thoughts come, like bees, to abide in the heart as a + hive. +They blend with his moments of joy, as the odour doth blend with the + flower-- +They blend with his light-falling tears, as the sunshine doth blend with + the shower. +As their music is mirthful or mournful, his pulse beateth sluggish or + fast, +And his breast takes its hue, like the ocean, as the sunshine or shadows + are cast. + +Thus adding new zest to enjoyment, and drawing the sharp sting from + pain, +The heart of the old man grew young, as it drank the sweet musical + strain. +Again at the altar he stands, with Francesca the fair at his side, +As the bells ring a quick peal of gladness, to welcome some happy young + bride. +'Tis true, when the death bells are tolling, the wounds of his heart + bleed anew, +When he thinks of his old loving mother, and the darlings that destiny + slew; +But the tower in whose shade they are sleeping seems the emblem of hope + and of love,-- +There is silence and death at its base, but there's life in the belfry + above. + +Was it the sound of his bells, as they swung in the purified air, +That drove from the bosom of Paolo the dark-wing`ed demons of care? +Was it their magical tone that for many a shadowless day +(So faith once believed) swept the clouds and the black-boding tempests + away? +Ah! never may Fate with their music a harsh-grating dissonance blend! +Sure an evening so calm and so bright will glide peacefully on to the + end. +Sure the course of his life, to its close, like his own native river + must be, +Flowing on through the valley of flowers to its home in the bright + summer sea! + + +PART III.--VICISSITUDE AND REST. + +O Erin! thou broad-spreading valley--thou well-watered land of fresh + streams, +When I gaze on thy hills greenly sloping, where the light of such + loveliness beams, +When I rest by the rim of thy fountains, or stray where thy streams + disembogue, +Then I think that the fairies have brought me to dwell in the bright + Tir-na-n-oge.[96] +But when on the face of thy children I look, and behold the big tears +Still stream down their grief-eaten channels, which widen and deepen + with years, +I fear that some dark blight for ever will fall on thy harvests of + peace, +And that, like thy lakes and thy rivers, thy sorrows must ever + increase.[97] + +O land! which the heavens made for joy, but where wretchedness buildeth + its throne-- +O prodigal spendthrift of sorrow! and hast thou not heirs of thine own? +Thus to lavish thy sons' only portion, and bring one sad claimant the + more, +From the sweet sunny lands of the south, to thy crowded and sorrowful + shore? +For this proud bark that cleaveth thy waters, she is not a corrach of + thine, +And the broad purple sails that spread o'er her seem dyed in the juice + of the vine. +Not thine is that flag, backward floating, nor the olive-cheek'd seamen + who guide, +Nor that heart-broken old man who gazes so listlessly over the tide. + +Accurs'd be the monster, who selfishly draweth his sword from its + sheath; +Let his garland be twined by the furies, and the upas tree furnish the + wreath; +Let the blood he has shed steam around him, through the length of + eternity's years, +And the anguish-wrung screams of his victims for ever resound in his + ears. +For all that makes life worth possessing must yield to his self-seeking + lust: +He trampleth on home and on love, as his war-horses trample the dust; +He loosens the red streams of ruin, which wildly, though partially, + stray-- +They but chafe round the rock-bastion'd castle, while they sweep the + frail cottage away. + +Feuds fell like a plague upon Florence, and rage from without and + within; +Peace turned her mild eyes from the havoc, and Mercy grew deaf in the + din; +Fear strengthened the dove-wings of happiness, tremblingly borne on the + gale; +And the angel Security vanished, as the war-demon swept o'er the vale. +Is it for the Mass or the Angelus new that the bells ever ring? +Or is it the red trickling mist such a purple reflection doth fling? +Ah, no: 'tis the tocsin of terror that tolls from the desolate shrine; +And the down-trodden vineyards are flowing, but not with the blood of + the vine. + +Deadly and dark was the tempest that swept o'er that vine-cover'd plain; +Burning and withering, its drops fell like fire on the grass and the + grain. +But the gloomiest moments must pass to their graves, as the brightest + and best, +And thus once again did fair Fiesole look o'er a valley of rest. +But, oh! in that brief hour of horror, that bloody eclipse of the sun, +What hopes and what dreams have been shattered?--what ruin and wrong + have been done? +What blossoms for ever have faded, that promised a harvest so fair; +And what joys are laid low in the dust that eternity cannot repair! + +Look down on that valley of sorrows, whence the land-marks of joy are + removed, +Oh! where is the darling Francesca, so loving, so dearly beloved?-- +And where are her children, whose voices rose music-winged once form + this spot? +And why are the sweet bells now silent? and where is the vine-cover'd + cot? +'Tis morning--no Mass-bell is tolling; 'tis noon, but no Angelus rings; +'Tis evening, but no drops of melody rain from her rose-coloured wings. +Ah! where have the angels, poor Paolo, that guarded thy cottage door + flown? +And why have they left thee to wander thus childless and joyless alone? + +His children had grown into manhood, but, ah! in that terrible night +Which had fallen on fair Florence, they perished away in the thick of + the fight; +Heart-blinded, his darling Francesca went seeking her sons through the + gloom, +And found them at length, and lay down full of love by their side in the + tomb, +That cottage, its vine-cover'd porch and its myrtle-bound garden of + flowers, +That church whence the bells with their voices, drown'd the sound of the + fast-flying hours, +Both are levelled and laid in the dust, and the sweet-sounding bells + have been torn +From their downfallen beams, and away by the red hand of sacrilege + borne. + +As the smith, in the dark, sullen smithy, striketh quick on the anvil + below, +Thus Fate on the heart of the old man struck rapidly blow after blow: +Wife, children, and hope passed away from the heart once so burning and + bold, +As the bright shining sparks disappear when the red glowing metal grows + cold. +He missed not the sound of his bells while those death-sounds struck + loud in the ears, +He missed not the church where they rang while his old eyes were blinded + with tears; +But the calmness of grief coming soon, in its sadness and silence + profound, +He listened once more as of old, but in vain, for the joy-bearing sound. + +When he felt indeed they had vanished, one fancy then flashed on his + brain, +One wish made his heart beat anew with a throbbing it could not + restrain-- +'Twas to wander away from fair Florence, its memory and dream-haunted + dells, +And to seek up and down through the earth for the sound of its magical + bells. +They will speak of the hopes that have perished, and the joys that have + faded so fast +With the music of memory wing`ed, they will seem but the voice of the + past; +As, when the bright morning has vanished, and evening grows starless and + dark, +The nightingale song of remembrance recalls the sweet strain of the + lark. + +Thus restlessly wandering through Italy, now by the Adrian sea, +In the shrine of Loreto, he bendeth his travel-tired suppliant knee; +And now by the brown troubled Tiber he taketh his desolate way, +And in many a shady basilica lingers to listen and pray. +He prays for the dear ones snatched from him, nor vainly nor hopelessly + prays, +For the strong faith in union hereafter like a beam o'er his cold bosom + plays; +He listens at morning and evening, when matin and vesper bells toll, +But their sweetest sounds grate on his ear, and their music is harsh to + his soul. + +For though sweet are the bells that ring out from the tall campanili of + Rome, +Ah! they are not the dearer and sweeter ones, tuned with the memory of + home. +So leaving proud Rome and fair Tivoli, southward the old man must stray, +'Till he reaches the Eden of waters that sparkle in Napoli's bay: +He sees not the blue waves of Baiae, nor Ischia's summits of brown, +He sees but the high campanili that rise o'er each far-gleaming town. +Driven restlessly onward, he saileth away to the bright land of Spain, +And seeketh thy shrine, Santiago, and stands by the western main. + +A bark bound for Erin lay waiting, he entered like one in a dream; +Fair winds in the full purple sails led him soon to the Shannon's broad + stream. +'Twas an evening that Florence might envy, so rich was the lemon-hued + air, +As it lay on lone Scattery's island, or lit the green mountains of + Clare; +The wide-spreading old giant river rolled his waters as smooth and as + still +As if Oonagh, with all her bright nymphs, had come down from the far + fairy hill,[98] +To fling her enchantments around on the mountains, the air, and the + tide, +And to soothe the worn heart of the old man who looked from the dark + vessel's side. + +Borne on the current the vessel glides smoothly but swiftly away, +By Carrigaholt, and by many a green sloping headland and bay, +'Twixt Cratloe's blue hills and green woods, and the soft sunny shores + of Tervoe, +And now the fair city of Limerick spreads out on the broad bank below; +Still nearer and nearer approaching, the mariners look o'er the town, +The old man sees nought but St. Mary's square tower, with its + battlements brown. +He listens--as yet all is silent, but now, with a sudden surprise, +A rich peal of melody rings from that tower through the clear evening + skies! + +One note is enough--his eye moistens, his heart, long so wither'd, + outswells, +He has found them--the sons of his labours--his musical, magical bells! +At each stroke all the bright past returneth, around him the sweet Arno + shines, +His children--his darling Francesca--his purple-clad trellis of vines! +Leaning forward, he listens, he gazes, he hears in that wonderful strain +The long-silent voices that murmur, "Oh, leave us not, father again!" +'Tis granted--he smiles--his eye closes--the breath from his white lips + hath fled-- +The father has gone to his children--the old Campanaro is dead! + + +94. The hills of Else. See Appendix to O'Daly's "History of the +Geraldines," translated by the Rev. C. P. Meehan, p. 130. + +95. Bell-founder. + +96. The country of youth; the Elysium of the Pagan Irish. + +97. Camden seems to credit a tradition commonly believed in his time, +of a gradual increase in the number and size of the lakes and rivers of +Ireland. + +98. The beautiful hill in Lower Ormond called "Knockshegowna," i.e., +Oonagh's Hill, so called from being the fabled residence of Oonagh (or +Una), the Fairy Queen of Spenser. One of the finest views of the +Shannon is to be seen from this hill. + + + +ALICE AND UNA. +A TALE OF CEIM-AN-EICH.[99] + +Ah! the pleasant time hath vanished, ere our wretched doubtings + banished, +All the graceful spirit-people, children of the earth and sea, +Whom in days now dim and olden, when the world was fresh and golden, +Every mortal could behold in haunted rath, and tower, and tree-- +They have vanished, they are banished--ah! how sad the loss for thee, + Lonely Ceim-an-eich! + +Still some scenes are yet enchanted by the charms that Nature granted, +Still are peopled, still are haunted, by a graceful spirit band. +Peace and beauty have their dwelling where the infant streams are + welling, +Where the mournful waves are knelling on Glengariff's coral strand; +Or where, on Killarney's mountains, Grace and Terror smiling stand, + Like sisters, hand in hand! + +Still we have a new romance in fire-ships through the tamed sea + glancing, +And the snorting and the prancing of the mighty engine steed; +Still, Astolpho-like, we wander through the boundless azure yonder, +Realizing what seemed fonder than the magic tales we read: +Tales of wild Arabian wonder, where the fancy all is freed-- + Wilder far indeed! + +Now that Earth once more hath woken, and the trance of Time is broken, +And the sweet word--Hope--is spoken, soft and sure, though none know + how, +Could we, could we only see all these, the glories of the Real, +Blended with the lost Ideal, happy were the old world now-- +Woman in its fond believing--man with iron arm and brow-- + Faith and work its vow! + +Yes! the Past shines clear and pleasant, and there's glory in the + Present; +And the Future, like a crescent, lights the deepening sky of Time; +And that sky will yet grow brighter, if the Worker and the Writer-- +If the Sceptre and the Mitre join in sacred bonds sublime. +With two glories shining o'er them, up the coming years they'll climb, + Earth's great evening as its prime! + +With a sigh for what is fading, but, O Earth! with no upbraiding, +For we feel that time is braiding newer, fresher flowers for thee, +We will speak, despite our grieving, words of loving and believing, +Tales we vowed when we were leaving awful Ceim-an-eich, +Where the sever'd rocks resemble fragments of a frozen sea, + And the wild deer flee! + +'Tis the hour when flowers are shrinking, when the weary sun is sinking, +And his thirsty steeds are drinking in the cooling western sea; +When young Maurice lightly goeth, where the tiny streamlet floweth +And the struggling moonlight showeth where his path must be-- +Path whereon the wild goats wander fearlessly and free + Through dark Ceim-an-eich. + +As a hunter, danger daring, with his dogs the brown moss sharing, +Little thinking, little caring, long a wayward youth lived he; +But his bounding heart was regal, and he looked as looks the eagle, +And he flew as flies the beagle, who the panting stag doth see: +Love, who spares a fellow-archer, long had let him wander free + Through wild Ceim-an-eich! + +But at length the hour drew nigher when his heart should feel that fire; +Up the mountain high and higher had he hunted from the dawn; +Till the weeping fawn descended, where the earth and ocean blended, +And with hope its slow way wended to a little grassy lawn; +It is safe, for gentle Alice to her saving breast hath drawn + Her almost sister fawn. + +Alice was a chieftain's daughter, and, though many suitors sought her, +She so loved Glengariff's water that she let her lovers pine; +Her eye was beauty's palace, and her cheek an ivory chalice, +Through which the blood of Alice gleamed soft as rosiest wine, +And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the fairies intertwine,[100] + And her heart a golden mine. + +She was gentler and shyer than the light fawn that stood by her, +And her eyes emit a fire soft and tender as her soul; +Love's dewy light doth drown her, and the braided locks that crown her +Than autumn's trees are browner, when the golden shadows roll +Through the forests in the evening, when cathedral turrets toll, + And the purple sun advanceth to its goal. + +Her cottage was a dwelling all regal homes excelling, +But, ah! beyond the telling was the beauty round it spread: +The wave and sunshine playing, like sisters each arraying, +Far down the sea-plants swaying upon their coral bed, +As languid as the tresses on a sleeping maiden's head, + When the summer breeze is dead. + +Need we say that Maurice loved her, and that no blush reproved her +When her throbbing bosom moved her to give the heart she gave; +That by dawnlight and by twilight, and, O blessed moon! by thy light, +When the twinkling stars on high light the wanderer o'er the wave, +His steps unconscious led him where Glengariff's waters lave + Each mossy bank and cave. + +He thitherward is wending, o'er the vale is night descending, +Quick his step, but quicker sending his herald thoughts before; +By rocks and streams before him, proud and hopeful on he bore him; +One star was shining o'er him--in his heart of hearts two more-- +And two other eyes, far brighter than a human head e'er wore, + Unseen were shining o'er. + +These eyes are not of woman, no brightness merely human +Could, planet-like, illumine the place in which they shone; +But Nature's bright works vary--there are beings light and airy, +Whom mortal lips call fairy, and Una she is one-- +Sweet sisters of the moonbeams and daughters of the sun, + Who along the curling cool waves run. + +As summer lightning dances amid the heavens' expanses, +Thus shone the burning glances of those flashing fairy eyes; +Three splendours there were shining, three passions intertwining, +Despair and hope combining their deep-contrasted dyes, +With jealousy's green lustre, as troubled ocean vies + With the blue of summer skies! + +She was a fairy creature, of heavenly form and feature, +Not Venus' self could teach her a newer, sweeter grace, +Not Venus' self could lend her an eye so dark and tender, +Half softness and half splendour, as lit her lily face; +And as the choral planets move harmonious throughout space, + There was music in her pace. + +But when at times she started, and her blushing lips were parted, +And a pearly lustre darted from her teeth so ivory white, +You'd think you saw the gliding of two rosy clouds dividing, +And the crescent they were hiding gleam forth upon your sight +Through these lips, as though the portals of a heaven pure and bright, + Came a breathing of delight! + +Though many an elf-king loved her, and elf-dames grave reproved her, +The hunter's daring moved her more wildly every hour; +Unseen she roamed beside him, to guard him and to guide him, +But now she must divide him from her human rival's power. +Ah! Alice!--gentle Alice! the storm begins to lower + That may crush Glengariff's flower! + +The moon, that late was gleaming, as calm as childhood's dreaming, +Is hid, and, wildly screaming, the stormy winds arise; +And the clouds flee quick and faster before their sullen master, +And the shadows of disaster are falling from the skies; +Strange sights and sounds are rising--but, Maurice, be thou wise, + Nor heed the tempting cries. + +If ever mortal needed that council, surely he did; +But the wile has now succeeded--he wanders from his path; +The cloud its lightning sendeth, and its bolt the stout oak rendeth, +And the arbutus back bendeth in the whirlwind, as a lath! +Now and then the moon looks out, but, alas! its pale face hath + A dreadful look of wrath. + +In vain his strength he squanders--at each step he wider wanders-- +Now he pauses--now he ponders where his present path may lead; +And, as he round is gazing, he sees--a sight amazing-- +Beneath him, calmly grazing, a noble jet-black steed. +"Now, heaven be praised!" cried Maurice, "for this succour in my need-- + From this labyrinth I'm freed!" + +Upon its back he leapeth, but a shudder through him creepeth, +As the mighty monster sweepeth like a torrent through the dell; +His mane, so softly flowing, is now a meteor blowing, +And his burning eyes are glowing with the light of an inward hell; +And the red breath of his nostrils, like steam where the lightning fell; + And his hoofs have a thunder knell! + +What words have we for painting the momentary fainting +That the rider's heart is tainting, as decay doth taint a corse? +But who will stoop to chiding, in a fancied courage priding, +When we know that he is riding the fearful Phooka Horse?[101] +Ah! his heart beats quick and faster than the smitings of remorse + As he sweepeth through the wild grass and gorse! + +As the avalanche comes crashing, 'mid the scattered streamlets + splashing, +Thus backward wildly dashing flew the horse through Ceim-an-eich-- +Through that glen so wide and narrow back he darted like an arrow-- +Round, round by Gougane Barra, and the fountains of the Lee; +O'er the Giant's Grave he leapeth, and he seems to own in fee + The mountains, and the rivers, and the sea! + +From his flashing hoofs who shall lock the eagle homes of Malloc, +When he bounds, as bounds the Mialloch[102] in its wild and murmuring + tide? +But as winter leadeth Flora, or the night leads on Aurora, +Or as shines green Glashenglora[103] along the black hill's side, +Thus, beside that demon monster, white and gentle as a bride, + A tender fawn is seen to glide. + +It is the fawn that fled him, and that late to Alice led him, +But now it does not dread him, as it feigned to do before, +When down the mountain gliding, in that sheltered meadow hiding, +It left his heart abiding by wild Glengariff's shore: +For it was a gentle fairy who the fawn's light form thus wore, + And who watched sweet Alice o'er. + +But the steed is backward prancing where late it was advancing, +And his flashing eyes are glancing, like the sun upon Lough Foyle; +The hardest granite crushing, through the thickest brambles brushing, +Now like a shadow rushing up the sides of Slieve-na-goil! +And the fawn beside him gliding o'er the rough and broken soil, + Without fear and without toil. + +Through woods, the sweet birds' leaf home, he rusheth to the sea foam, +Long, long the fairies' chief home, when the summer nights are cool, +And the blue sea, like a syren, with its waves the steed environ, +Which hiss like furnace iron when plunged within a pool, +Then along among the islands where the water nymphs bear rule, + Through the bay to Adragool. + +Now he rises o'er Berehaven, where he hangeth like a raven-- +Ah! Maurice, though no craven, how terrible for thee +To see the misty shading of the mighty mountains fading, +And thy winged fire-steed wading through the clouds as through a sea! +Now he feels the earth beneath him--he is loosen'd--he is free, + And asleep in Ceim-an-eich. + +Away the wild steed leapeth, while his rider calmly sleepeth +Beneath a rock which keepeth the entrance to the glen, +Which standeth like a castle, where are dwelling lord and vassal, +Where within are wind and wassail, and without are warrior men; +But save the sleeping Maurice, this castle cliff had then + No mortal denizen![104] + +Now Maurice is awaking, for the solid earth is shaking, +And a sunny light is breaking through the slowly opening stone +And a fair page at the portal crieth, "Welcome, welcome! mortal, +Leave thy world (at best a short ill), for the pleasant world we own: +There are joys by thee untasted, there are glories yet unknown-- + Come kneel at Una's throne." + +With a sullen sound of thunder, the great rock falls asunder, +He looks around in wonder, and with ravishment awhile, +For the air his sense is chaining, with as exquisite a paining +As when summer clouds are raining o'er a flowery Indian isle; +And the faces that surround him, oh! how exquisite their smile, + So free of mortal care and guile. + +These forms, oh! they are finer--these faces are diviner +Than, Phidias, even thine are, with all thy magic art; +For beyond an artist's guessing, and beyond a bard's expressing, +Is the face that truth is dressing with the feelings of the heart; +Two worlds are there together--earth and heaven have each a part-- + And of such, divinest Una, thou art! + +And then the dazzling lustre of the hall in which they muster-- +Where the brightest diamonds cluster on the flashing walls around; +And the flying and advancing, and the sighing and the glancing. +And the music and the dancing on the flower-inwoven ground, +And the laughing and the feasting, and the quaffing and the sound, + In which their voices all are drowned. + +But the murmur now is hushing--there's a pushing and a rushing, +There's a crowding and a crushing, through that golden, fairy place, +Where a snowy veil is lifting, like the slow and silent shifting +Of a shining vapour drifting across the moon's pale face-- +For there sits gentle Una, fairest queen of fairy race, + In her beauty, and her majesty, and grace. + +The moon by stars attended, on her pearly throne ascended, +Is not more purely splendid than this fairy-girted queen; +And when her lips had spoken, 'mid the charmed silence broken, +You'd think you had awoken in some bright Elysian scene; +For her voice than the lark's was sweeter, that sings in joy between + The heavens and the meadows green. + +But her cheeks--ah! what are roses?--what are clouds where eve + reposes?-- +What are hues that dawn discloses?--to the blushes spreading there; +And what the sparkling motion of a star within the ocean, +To the crystal soft emotion that her lustrous dark eyes wear? +And the tresses of a moonless and a starless night are fair + To the blackness of her raven hair. + +Ah! mortal hearts have panted for what to thee is granted-- +To see the halls enchanted of the spirit world revealed; +And yet no glimpse assuages the feverish doubt that rages +In the hearts of bards and sages wherewith they may be healed; +For this have pilgrims wandered--for this have votaries kneeled-- + For this, too, has blood bedewed the field. + +"And now that thou beholdest what the wisest and the oldest, +What the bravest and the boldest, have never yet descried, +Wilt thou come and share our being, be a part of what thou'rt seeing, +And flee, as we are fleeing, through the boundless ether wide? +Or along the silver ocean, or down deep where pale pearls hide? + And I, who am a queen, will be thy bride. + +"As an essence thou wilt enter the world's mysterious centre," +And then the fairy bent her, imploring to the youth-- +"Thou'lt be free of Death's cold ghastness, and, with a comet's + fastness, +Thou canst wander through the vastness to the Paradise of Truth, +Each day a new joy bringing, which will never leave in sooth + The slightest stain of weariness and ruth." + +As he listened to the speaker, his heart grew weak and weaker-- +Ah! Memory, go seek her, that maiden by the wave, +Who with terror and amazement is looking from her casement, +Where the billows at the basement of her nestled cottage rave, +At the moon which struggles onward through the tempest, like the brave, + And which sinks within the clouds as in a grave. + +All maidens will abhor us, and it's very painful for us +To tell how faithless Maurice forgot his plighted vow: +He thinks not of the breaking of the heart he late was seeking, +He but listens to her speaking, and but gazes on her brow; +And his heart has all consented, and his lips are ready now + With the awful and irrevocable vow. + +While the word is there abiding, lo! the crowd is now dividing, +And, with sweet and gentle gliding, in before him came a fawn; +It was the same that fled him, and that seemed so much to dread him, +When it down in triumph led him to Glengariff's grassy lawn, +When, from rock to rock descending, to sweet Alice he was drawn, + As through Ceim-an-eich he hunted from the dawn. + +The magic chain is broken--no fairy vow is spoken-- +From his trance he hath awoken, and once again is free; +And gone is Una's palace, and vain the wild steed's malice, +And again to gentle Alice down he wends through Ceim-an-eich: +The moon is calmly shining over mountain, stream, and tree, + And the yellow sea-plants glisten through the sea. + +The sun his gold is flinging, the happy birds are singing, +And bells are gaily ringing along Glengariff's sea; +And crowds in many a galley to the happy marriage rally +Of the maiden of the valley and the youth of Ceim-an-eich; +Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask on bended knee + A blessing, gentle Alice, upon thee! + + +99. The pass of Keim-an-eigh (the path of the deer) lies to the +south-west of Inchageela, in the direction of Bantry Bay. + +100. The lusmore (or fairy cap), literally the great herb, 'Digitalis +purpurea.' + +101. The Phooka is described as belonging to the malignant class of +fairy beings, and he is as wild and capricious in his character as he is +changeable in his form. At one time an eagle or an 'ignis fatuus,' at +another a horse or a bull, while occasionally he figures as a compound +of the calf and goat. When he assumes the form of a horse, his great +object, according to a recent writer, seems to be to obtain a rider, and +then he is in his most malignant glory.--See Croker's "Fairy Legends." + +102. Mialloch, "the murmuring river" at Glengariff.--Smith's "Cork." + +103. Glashenglora, a mountain torrent, which finds its way into +the Atlantic Ocean through Glengariff, in the west of the county of +Cork. The name, literally translated, signifies "the noisy green +water."--Barry's "Songs of Ireland," p. 173. + +104. There is a great square rock, literally resembling the description +in the text, which stands near the Glengariff entrance to the pass of +Ceim-an-eich. + + + + +National Poems and Songs. + + + +ADVANCE! + +God bade the sun with golden step sublime, + Advance! +He whispered in the listening ear of Time, + Advance! +He bade the guiding spirits of the stars, +With lightning speed, in silver shining cars, +Along the bright floor of his azure hall, + Advance! +Sun, stars, and time obey the voice, and all + Advance! + +The river at its bubbling fountain cries, + Advance! +The clouds proclaim, like heralds through the skies, + Advance! +Throughout the world the mighty Master's laws +Allow not one brief moment's idle pause; +The earth is full of life, the swelling seeds + Advance! +And summer hours, like flowery harnessed steeds, + Advance! + +To man's most wondrous hand the same voice cried, + Advance! +Go clear the woods, and o'er the bounding tide + Advance! +Go draw the marble from its secret bed, +And make the cedar bend its giant head; +Let domes and columns through the wondering air + Advance! +The world, O man! is thine; but, wouldst thou share, + Advance! + +Unto the soul of man the same voice spoke, + Advance! +From out the chaos, thunder-like, it broke, + "Advance! +Go track the comet in its wheeling race, +And drag the lightning from its hiding-place; +From out the night of ignorance and fears, + Advance! +For Love and Hope, borne by the coming years, + Advance!" + +All heard, and some obeyed the great command, + Advance! +It passed along from listening land to land, + Advance! +The strong grew stronger, and the weak grew strong, +As passed the war-cry of the world along-- +Awake, ye nations, know your powers and rights-- + Advance! +Through hope and work to Freedom's new delights, + Advance! + +Knowledge came down and waved her steady torch, + Advance! +Sages proclaimed 'neath many a marble porch, + Advance! +As rapid lightning leaps from peak to peak, +The Gaul, the Goth, the Roman, and the Greek, +The painted Briton caught the wing`ed word, + Advance! +And earth grew young, and carolled as a bird, + Advance! + +O Ireland! oh, my country, wilt thou not + Advance? +Wilt thou not share the world's progressive lot?-- + Advance! +Must seasons change, and countless years roll on, +And thou remain a darksome Ajalon? +And never see the crescent moon of Hope + Advance? +'Tis time thine heart and eye had wider scope-- + Advance! + +Dear brothers, wake! look up! be firm! be strong + Advance! +From out the starless night of fraud and wrong + Advance! +The chains have fall'n from off thy wasted hands, +And every man a seeming freedman stands;-- +But, ah! 'tis in the soul that freedom dwells,-- + Advance! +Proclaim that there thou wearest no manacles;-- + Advance! + +Advance! thou must advance or perish now;-- + Advance! +Advance! Why live with wasted heart and brow?-- + Advance! +Advance! or sink at once into the grave; +Be bravely free or artfully a slave! +Why fret thy master, if thou must have one? + Advance! +Advance three steps, the glorious work is done;-- + Advance! + +The first is COURAGE--'tis a giant stride!-- + Advance! +With bounding step up Freedom's rugged side + Advance! +KNOWLEDGE will lead thee to the dazzling heights, +TOLERANCE will teach and guard thy brother's rights. +Faint not! for thee a pitying Future waits-- + Advance! +Be wise, be just, with will as fixed as Fate's,-- + Advance! + + + +REMONSTRANCE. + +Bless the dear old verdant land, + Brother, wert thou born of it? +As thy shadow life doth stand, +Twining round its rosy band, +Did an Irish mother's hand + Guide thee in the morn of it? +Did thy father's soft command + Teach thee love or scorn of it? + +Thou who tread'st its fertile breast, + Dost thou feel a glow for it? +Thou, of all its charms possest, +Living on its first and best, +Art thou but a thankless guest, + Or a traitor foe for it? +If thou lovest, where the test? + Wouldst thou strike a blow for it? + +Has the past no goading sting + That can make thee rouse for it? +Does thy land's reviving spring, +Full of buds and blossoming, +Fail to make thy cold heart cling, + Breathing lover's vows for it? +With the circling ocean's ring + Thou wert made a spouse for it! + +Hast thou kept, as thou shouldst keep, + Thy affections warm for it, +Letting no cold feeling creep, +Like the ice breath o'er the deep, +Freezing to a stony sleep + Hopes the heart would form for it-- +Glories that like rainbows weep + Through the darkening storm for it? + +What we seek is Nature's right-- + Freedom and the aids of it;-- +Freedom for the mind's strong flight +Seeking glorious shapes star-bright +Through the world's intensest night, + When the sunshine fades of it! +Truth is one, and so is light, + Yet how many shades of it! + +A mirror every heart doth wear, + For heavenly shapes to shine in it; +If dim the glass or dark the air, +That Truth, the beautiful and fair, +God's glorious image, shines not there, + Or shines with nought divine in it: +A sightless lion in its lair, + The darkened soul must pine in it! + +Son of this old, down-trodden land, + Then aid us in the fight for it; +We seek to make it great and grand, +Its shipless bays, its naked strand, +By canvas-swelling breezes fanned. + Oh! what a glorious sight for it! +The past expiring like a brand, + In morning's rosy light for it! + +Think that this dear old land is thine, + And thou a traitor slave of it; +Think how the Switzer leads his kine, +When pale the evening star doth shine, +His song has home in every line, + Freedom in every stave of it! +Think how the German loves his Rhine, + And worships every wave of it! + +Our own dear land is bright as theirs, + But, oh! our hearts are cold for it; +Awake! we are not slaves but heirs; +Our fatherland requires our cares, +Our work with man, with God our prayers. + Spurn blood-stained Judas-gold for it, +Let us do all that honour dares-- + Be earnest, faithful, bold for it! + + + +IRELAND'S VOW. + +Come! Liberty, come! we are ripe for thy coming-- + Come freshen the hearts where thy rival has trod-- +Come, richest and rarest!--come, purest and fairest!-- + Come, daughter of Science!--come, gift of the God! + +Long, long have we sighed for thee, coyest of maidens-- + Long, long have we worshipped thee, queen of the brave! +Steadily sought for thee, readily fought for thee, + Purpled the scaffold and glutted the grave! + +On went the fight through the cycle of ages, + Never our battle-cry ceasing the while; +Forward, ye valiant ones! onward, battalioned ones! + Strike for your Erin, your own darling isle! + +Still in the ranks are we, struggling with eagerness, + Still in the battle for Freedom are we! +Words may avail in it--swords if they fail in it, + What matters the weapon, if only we're free? + +Oh! we are pledged in the face of the universe, + Never to falter and never to swerve; +Toil for it!--bleed for it!--if there be need for it, + Stretch every sinew and strain every nerve! + +Traitors and cowards our names shall be ever, + If for a moment we turn from the chase; +For ages exhibited, scoffed at, and gibbeted, + As emblems of all that was servile and base! + +Irishmen! Irishmen! think what is Liberty, + Fountain of all that is valued and dear, +Peace and security, knowledge and purity, + Hope for hereafter and happiness here. + +Nourish it, treasure it deep in your inner heart-- + Think of it ever by night and by day; +Pray for it!--sigh for it!--work for it!--die for it!-- + What is this life and dear freedom away? + +List! scarce a sound can be heard in our thoroughfares-- + Look! scarce a ship can be seen on our streams; +Heart-crushed and desolate, spell-bound, irresolute, + Ireland but lives in the bygone of dreams! + +Irishmen! if we be true to our promises, + Nerving our souls for more fortunate hours, +Life's choicest blessings, love's fond caressings, + Peace, home, and happiness, all shall be ours! + + + +A DREAM. + +I dreamt a dream, a dazzling dream, of a green isle far away, +Where the glowing West to the ocean's breast calleth the dying day; +And that island green was as fair a scene as ever man's eye did see, +With its chieftains bold and its temples old, and its homes and its + altars free! +No foreign foe did that green isle know, no stranger band it bore, +Save the merchant train from sunny Spain, and from Afric's golden shore! +And the young man's heart would fondly start, and the old man's eye + would smile, +As their thoughts would roam o'er the ocean foam to that lone and "holy + isle!" + +Years passed by, and the orient sky blazed with a newborn light, +And Bethlehem's star shone bright afar o'er the lost world's darksome + night; +And the diamond shrines from plundered mines, and the golden fanes of + Jove, +Melted away in the blaze of day at the simple spellword--Love! +The light serene o'er that island green played with its saving beams, +And the fires of Baal waxed dim and pale like the stars in the morning + streams! +And 'twas joy to hear, in the bright air clear, from out each sunny + glade, +The tinkling bell, from the quiet cell, or the cloister's tranquil + shade! + +A cloud of night o'er that dream so bright soon with its dark wing came, +And the happy scene of that island green was lost in blood and shame; +For its kings unjust betrayed their trust, and its queens, though fair, + were frail, +And a robber band, from a stranger land, with their war-whoops filled + the gale; +A fatal spell on that green isle fell, a shadow of death and gloom +Passed withering o'er, from shore to shore, like the breath of the foul + simoom; +And each green hill's side was crimson dyed, and each stream rolled red + and wild, +With the mingled blood of the brave and good--of mother and maid and + child! + +Dark was my dream, though many a gleam of hope through that black night + broke, +Like a star's bright form through a whistling storm, or the moon through + a midnight oak! +And many a time, with its wings sublime, and its robes of saffron light, +Would the morning rise on the eastern skies, but to vanish again in + night! +For, in abject prayer, the people there still raised their fettered + hands, +When the sense of right and the power to smite are the spirit that + commands; +For those who would sneer at the mourner's tear, and heed not the + suppliant's sigh, +Would bow in awe to that first great law, a banded nation's cry! + +At length arose o'er that isle of woes a dawn with a steadier smile, +And in happy hour a voice of power awoke the slumbering isle! +And the people all obeyed the call of their chief's unsceptred hand, +Vowing to raise, as in ancient days, the name of their own dear land! +My dream grew bright as the sunbeam's light, as I watched that isle's + career, +Through the varied scene and the joys serene of many a future year; +And, oh! what a thrill did my bosom fill as I gazed on a pillared pile, +Where a senate once more in power watched o'er the rights of that lone + green isle! + + + +THE PRICE OF FREEDOM. + +Man of Ireland, heir of sorrow, + Wronged, insulted, scorned, oppressed, +Wilt thou never see that morrow + When thy weary heart may rest? +Lift thine eyes, thou outraged creature; + Nay, look up, for man thou art, +Man in form, and frame, and feature, + Why not act man's god-like part? + +Think, reflect, inquire, examine, + Is it for this God gave you birth-- +With the spectre look of famine, + Thus to creep along the earth? +Does this world contain no treasures + Fit for thee, as man, to wear?-- +Does this life abound in pleasures, + And thou askest not to share? + +Look! the nations are awaking, + Every chain that bound them burst! +At the crystal fountains slaking + With parched lips their fever thirst! +Ignorance the demon, fleeing, + Leaves unlocked the fount they sip; +Wilt thou not, thou wretched being, + Stoop and cool thy burning lip? + +History's lessons, if thou'lt read 'em, + All proclaim this truth to thee: +Knowledge is the price of freedom, + Know thyself, and thou art free! +Know, O man! thy proud vocation, + Stand erect, with calm, clear brow-- +Happy! happy were our nation, + If thou hadst that knowledge now! + +Know thy wretched, sad condition, + Know the ills that keep thee so; +Knowledge is the sole physician, + Thou wert healed if thou didst know! +Those who crush, and scorn, and slight thee, + Those to whom thou once wouldst kneel, +Were the foremost then to right thee, + Didst thou but feel as thou shouldst feel! + +Not as beggars lowly bending, + Not in sighs, and groans, and tears, +But a voice of thunder sending + Through thy tyrant brother's ears! +Tell him he is not thy master, + Tell him of man's common lot, +Feel life has but one disaster, + To be a slave, and know it not! + +Didst but prize what knowledge giveth, + Didst but know how blest is he +Who in Freedom's presence liveth, + Thou wouldst die, or else be free! +Round about he looks in gladness, + Joys in heaven, and earth, and sea, +Scarcely heaves a sigh of sadness, + Save in thoughts of such as thee! + + + +THE VOICE AND PEN. + +Oh! the orator's voice is a mighty power, + As it echoes from shore to shore, +And the fearless pen has more sway o'er men + Than the murderous cannon's roar! +What burst the chain far over the main, + And brighten'd the captive's den? +'Twas the fearless pen and the voice of power, + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +The tyrant knaves who deny man's rights, + And the cowards who blanch with fear, +Exclaim with glee: "No arms have ye, + Nor cannon, nor sword, nor spear! +Your hills are ours--with our forts and towers + We are masters of mount and glen!" +Tyrants, beware! for the arms we bear + Are the Voice and the fearless Pen! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +Though your horsemen stand with their bridles in hand, + And your sentinels walk around! +Though your matches flare in the midnight air, + And your brazen trumpets sound! +Oh! the orator's tongue shall be heard among + These listening warrior men; +And they'll quickly say: "Why should we slay + Our friends of the Voice and Pen?" + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +When the Lord created the earth and sea, + The stars and the glorious sun, +The Godhead spoke, and the universe woke + And the mighty work was done! +Let a word be flung from the orator's tongue, + Or a drop from the fearless pen, +And the chains accursed asunder burst + That fettered the minds of men! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +Oh! these are the swords with which we fight, + The arms in which we trust, +Which no tyrant hand will dare to brand, + Which time cannot dim or rust! +When these we bore we triumphed before, + With these we'll triumph again! +And the world will say no power can stay + The Voice and the fearless Pen! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + + + +"CEASE TO DO EVIL--LEARN TO DO WELL."[105] + +Oh! thou whom sacred duty hither calls, + Some glorious hours in freedom's cause to dwell, +Read the mute lesson on thy prison walls, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well." + +If haply thou art one of genius vast, + Of generous heart, of mind sublime and grand, +Who all the spring-time of thy life has pass'd + Battling with tyrants for thy native land, +If thou hast spent thy summer as thy prime, + The serpent brood of bigotry to quell, +Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +If thy great heart beat warmly in the cause + Of outraged man, whate'er his race might be, +If thou hast preached the Christian's equal laws, + And stayed the lash beyond the Indian sea! +If at thy call a nation rose sublime, + If at thy voice seven million fetters fell,-- +Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +If thou hast seen thy country's quick decay, + And, like the prophet, raised thy saving hand, +And pointed out the only certain way + To stop the plague that ravaged o'er the land! +If thou hast summoned from an alien clime + Her banished senate here at home to dwell: +Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +Or if, perchance, a younger man thou art, + Whose ardent soul in throbbings doth aspire, +Come weal, come woe, to play the patriot's part + In the bright footsteps of thy glorious sire +If all the pleasures of life's youthful time + Thou hast abandoned for the martyr's cell, +Do thou repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +Or art thou one whom early science led + To walk with Newton through the immense of heaven, +Who soared with Milton, and with Mina bled, + And all thou hadst in freedom's cause hast given? +Oh! fond enthusiast--in the after time + Our children's children of thy worth shall tell-- +England proclaims thy honesty a crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +Or art thou one whose strong and fearless pen + Roused the Young Isle, and bade it dry its tears, +And gathered round thee ardent, gifted men, + The hope of Ireland in the coming years? +Who dares in prose and heart-awakening rhyme, + Bright hopes to breathe and bitter truths to tell? +Oh! dangerous criminal, repent thy crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +"Cease to do evil"--ay! ye madmen, cease! + Cease to love Ireland--cease to serve her well; +Make with her foes a foul and fatal peace, + And quick will ope your darkest, dreariest cell. +"Learn to do well"--ay! learn to betray, + Learn to revile the land in which you dwell +England will bless you on your altered way + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + + +105. This inscription is on the front of Richmond Penitentiary, Dublin, +in which O'Connell and the other political prisoners were confined in +the year 1844. + + + +THE LIVING LAND. + +We have mourned and sighed for our buried pride,[106] + We have given what nature gives, +A manly tear o'er a brother's bier, + But now for the Land that lives! +He who passed too soon, in his glowing noon, + The hope of our youthful band, +From heaven's blue wall doth seem to call + "Think, think of your Living Land! +I dwell serene in a happier scene, + Ye dwell in a Living Land!" + +Yes! yes! dear shade, thou shalt be obeyed, + We must spend the hour that flies, +In no vain regret for the sun that has set, + But in hope for another to rise; +And though it delay with its guiding ray, + We must each, with his little brand, +Like sentinels light through the dark, dark night, + The steps of our Living Land. +She needeth our care in the chilling air-- + Our old, dear Living Land! + +Yet our breasts will throb, and the tears will throng + To our eyes for many a day, +For an eagle in strength and a lark in song + Was the spirit that passed away. +Though his heart be still as a frozen rill, + And pulseless his glowing hand, +We must struggle the more for that old green shore + He was making a Living Land. +By him we have lost, at whatever the cost, + She must be a Living Land! + +A Living Land, such as Nature plann'd, + When she hollowed our harbours deep, +When she bade the grain wave o'er the plain, + And the oak wave over the steep: +When she bade the tide roll deep and wide, + From its source to the ocean strand, +Oh! it was not to slaves she gave these waves, + But to sons of a Living Land! +Sons who have eyes and hearts to prize + The worth of a Living Land! + +Oh! when shall we lose the hostile hues, + That have kept us so long apart? +Or cease from the strife, that is crushing the life + From out of our mother's heart? +Could we lay aside our doubts and our pride, + And join in a common band, +One hour would see our country free, + A young and a Living Land! +With a nation's heart and a nation's part, + A free and a Living Land! + + +106. Thomas Davis. + + + +THE DEAD TRIBUNE. + + The awful shadow of a great man's death + Falls on this land, so sad and dark before-- + Dark with the famine and the fever breath, + And mad dissensions knawing at its core. + Oh! let us hush foul discord's maniac roar, + And make a mournful truce, however brief, + Like hostile armies when the day is o'er! + And thus devote the night-time of our grief +To tears and prayers for him, the great departed chief. + + In "Genoa the Superb" O'Connell dies-- + That city of Columbus by the sea, + Beneath the canopy of azure skies, + As high and cloudless as his fame must be. + Is it mere chance or higher destiny + That brings these names together? One, the bold + Wanderer in ways that none had trod but he-- + The other, too, exploring paths untold; +One a new world would seek, and one would save the old! + + With childlike incredulity we cry, + It cannot be that great career is run, + It cannot be but in the eastern sky + Again will blaze that mighty world-watch'd sun! + Ah! fond deceit, the east is dark and dun, + Death's black, impervious cloud is on the skies; + Toll the deep bell, and fire the evening gun, + Let honest sorrow moisten manly eyes: +A glorious sun has set that never more shall rise! + + Brothers, who struggle yet in Freedom's van, + Where'er your forces o'er the world are spread, + The last great champion of the rights of man-- + The last great Tribune of the world is dead! + Join in our grief, and let our tears be shed + Without reserve or coldness on his bier; + Look on his life as on a map outspread-- + His fight for freedom--freedom far and near-- +And if a speck should rise, oh! hide it with a tear! + + To speak his praises little need have we + To tell the wonders wrought within these waves + Enough, so well he taught us to be free, + That even to him we could not kneel as slaves. + Oh! let our tears be fast-destroying graves, + Where doubt and difference may for ever lie, + Buried and hid as in sepulchral caves; + And let love's fond and reverential eye +Alone behold the star new risen in the sky! + + But can it be, that well-known form is stark? + Can it be true, that burning heart is chill? + Oh! can it be that twinkling eye is dark? + And that great thunder voice is hush'd and still? + Never again upon the famous hill + Will he preside as monarch of the land, + With myriad myriads subject to his will; + Never again shall raise that powerful hand, +To rouse, to warm, to check, to kindle, and command! + + The twinkling eye, so full of changeful light, + Is dimmed and darkened in a dread eclipse; + The withering scowl, the smile so sunny bright, + Alike have faded from his voiceless lips. + The words of power, the mirthful, merry quips, + The mighty onslaught, and the quick reply, + The biting taunts that cut like stinging whips, + The homely truth, the lessons grave and high, +All, all are with the past, but cannot, shall not die! + + + +A MYSTERY. + +They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing, +They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing; +They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing, +And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing! + + God of Justice! God of Power! + Do we dream? Can it be? + In this land, at this hour, + With the blossom on the tree, + In the gladsome month of May, + When the young lambs play, + When Nature looks around + On her waking children now, + The seed within the ground, + The bud upon the bough? + Is it right, is it fair, + That we perish of despair + In this land, on this soil, + Where our destiny is set, + Which we cultured with our toil, + And watered with our sweat? + + We have ploughed, we have sown + But the crop was not our own; + We have reaped, but harpy hands + Swept the harvest from our lands; + We were perishing for food, + When, lo! in pitying mood, + Our kindly rulers gave + The fat fluid of the slave, + While our corn filled the manger + Of the war-horse of the stranger! + + God of Mercy! must this last? + Is this land preordained + For the present and the past, + And the future, to be chained, + To be ravaged, to be drained, + To be robbed, to be spoiled, + To be hushed, to be whipt, + Its soaring pinions clipt, + And its every effort foiled? + + Do our numbers multiply + But to perish and to die? + Is this all our destiny below, + That our bodies, as they rot, + May fertilise the spot + Where the harvests of the stranger grow? + + If this be, indeed, our fate, + Far, far better now, though late, +That we seek some other land and try some other zone; + The coldest, bleakest shore + Will surely yield us more +Than the store-house of the stranger that we dare not call our own. + + Kindly brothers of the West, + Who from Liberty's full breast +Have fed us, who are orphans, beneath a step-dame's frown, + Behold our happy state, + And weep your wretched fate +That you share not in the splendours of our empire and our crown! + + Kindly brothers of the East, + Thou great tiara'd priest, +Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth-- + Or thou who bear'st control + Over golden Istambol, +Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our dearth, + + Turn here your wondering eyes, + Call your wisest of the wise, +Your Muftis and your ministers, your men of deepest lore; + Let the sagest of your sages + Ope our island's mystic pages, +And explain unto your Highness the wonders of our shore. + + A fruitful teeming soil, + Where the patient peasants toil +Beneath the summer's sun and the watery winter sky-- + Where they tend the golden grain + Till it bends upon the plain, +Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die. + + Where they watch their flocks increase, + And store the snowy fleece, +Till they send it to their masters to be woven o'er the waves; + Where, having sent their meat + For the foreigner to eat, +Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into their graves. + +'Tis for this they are dying where the golden corn is growing, +'Tis for this they are dying where the crowded herds are lowing, +'Tis for this they are dying where the streams of life are flowing, +And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing. + + + + +Sonnets. + + + +AFTER READING J. T. GILBERT'S "THE HISTORY OF DUBLIN." + +Long have I loved the beauty of thy streets, + Fair Dublin: long, with unavailing vows, + Sigh'd to all guardian deities who rouse +The spirits of dead nations to new heats +Of life and triumph:--vain the fond conceits, + Nestling like eaves-warmed doves 'neath patriot brows! + Vain as the "Hope," that from thy Custom-House +Looks o'er the vacant bay in vain for fleets. + Genius alone brings back the days of yore: +Look! look, what life is in these quaint old shops-- +The loneliest lanes are rattling with the roar + of coach and chair; fans, feathers, flambeaus, fops, +Flutter and flicker through yon open door, + Where Handel's hand moves the great organ stops.[107] + +March 11th, 1856. + + +107. It is stated that the "Messiah" was first publicly performed in +Dublin. See Gilbert's "History of Dublin," vol. i. p. 75, and +Townsend's "Visit of Handel to Dublin," p. 64. + + + +TO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + +(Dedication of Calderon's "Chrysanthus and Daria.") + +Pensive within the Coliseum's walls + I stood with thee, O Poet of the West!-- + The day when each had been a welcome guest +In San Clemente's venerable halls:-- +With what delight my memory now recalls + That hour of hours, that flower of all the rest, + When, with thy white beard falling on thy breast, + That noble head, that well might serve as Paul's +In some divinest vision of the saint + By Raffael dreamed--I heard thee mourn the dead-- + The martyred host who fearless there, though faint, +Walked the rough road that up to heaven's gate led: + These were the pictures Calderon loved to paint + In golden hues that here perchance have fled. + +Yet take the colder copy from my hand, + Not for its own but for the Master's sake; + Take it, as thou, returning home, wilt take + From that divinest soft Italian land +Fixed shadows of the beautiful and grand + In sunless pictures that the sun doth make-- + Reflections that may pleasant memories wake + Of all that Raffael touched, or Angelo planned:-- +As these may keep what memory else might lose, + So may this photograph of verse impart + An image, though without the native hues +Of Calderon's fire, and yet with Calderon's art, + Of what thou lovest through a kindred muse + That sings in heaven, yet nestles in the heart. + +Dublin, August 24th, 1869. + + + +TO KENELM HENRY DIGBY, +AUTHOR OF "MORES CATHOLICI," "THE BROADSTONE OF HONOUR," +"COMPITUM," ETC. + +(On being presented by him with a copy, painted by himself, of a rare +Portrait of Calderon.) + +How can I thank thee for this gift of thine, + Digby, the dawn and day-star of our age, + Forerunner thou of many a saint and sage +Who since have fought and conquer'd 'neath the Sign? +Thou hast left, as in a sacred shrine-- + What shrine more pure than thy unspotted page?-- + The priceless relics, as a heritage, +Of loftiest thoughts and lessons most divine. + Poet and teacher of sublimest lore, +Thou scornest not the painter's mimic skill, +And thus hath come, obedient to thy will + The outward form that Calderon's spirit wore. +Ah! happy canvas that two glories fill, + Where Calderon lives 'neath Digby's hand once more. + +October 15th, 1878. + + + +TO ETHNA.[108] + +Ethna, to cull sweet flowers divinely fair, + To seek for gems of such transparent light + As would not be unworthy to unite +Round thy fair brow, and through thy dark-brown hair, +I would that I had wings to cleave the air, + In search of some far region of delight, + That back to thee from that adventurous flight, +A glorious wreath my happy hands might bear; + Soon would the sweetest Persian rose be thine-- +Soon would the glory of Golconda's mine +Flash on thy forehead, like a star--ah! me, + In place of these, I bring, with trembling hand, +These fading wild flowers from our native land-- + These simple pebbles from the Irish Sea! + + +108. This sonnet to the poet's wife was prefixed as a dedication to his +first volume of poems. + + + + +Underglimpses. + + + +THE ARRAYING. + +The blue-eyed maidens of the sea +With trembling haste approach the lee, +So small and smooth, they seem to be +Not waves, but children of the waves, +And as each link`ed circle laves +The crescent marge of creek and bay, +Their mingled voices all repeat-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +We come to bathe thy snow-white feet. + +We bring thee treasures rich and rare, +White pearl to deck thy golden hair, +And coral beads, so smoothly fair +And free from every flaw or speck; +That they may lie upon thy neck, +This sweetest day--this brightest day +That ever on the green world shone-- + O lovely May, O long'd-for May! +As if thy neck and thee were one. + +We bring thee from our distant home +Robes of the pure white-woven foam, +And many a pure, transparent comb, +Formed of the shells the tortoise plaits, +By Babelmandeb's coral-straits; +And amber vases, with inlay +Of roseate pearl time never dims-- + O lovely May! O longed-for May! +Wherein to lave thine ivory limbs. + +We bring, as sandals for thy feet, +Beam-broidered waves, like those that greet, +With green and golden chrysolite, +The setting sun's departing beams, +When all the western water seems +Like emeralds melted by his ray, +So softly bright, so gently warm-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +That thou canst trust thy tender form. + +And lo! the ladies of the hill, +The rippling stream, and sparkling rill, +With rival speed, and like good will, +Come, bearing down the mountain's side +The liquid crystals of the tide, +In vitreous vessels clear as they, +And cry, from each worn, winding path: + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +We come to lead thee to the bath. + +And we have fashioned, for thy sake, +Mirrors more bright than art could make-- +The silvery-sheeted mountain lake +Hangs in its carv`ed frame of rocks, +Wherein to dress thy dripping locks, +Or bind the dewy curls that stray +Thy trembling breast meandering down-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +Within their self-woven crown. + +Arise, O May! arise and see +Thine emerald robes are held for thee +By many a hundred-handed tree, +Who lift from all the fields around +The verdurous velvet from the ground, +And then the spotless vestments lay, +Smooth-folded o'er their outstretch'd arms-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +Wherein to fold thy virgin charms. + +Thy robes are stiff with golden bees, +Dotted with gems more bright than these, +And scented by each perfumed breeze +That, blown from heaven's re-open'd bowers, +Become the souls of new-born flowers, +Who thus their sacred birth betray; +Heavenly thou art, nor less should be-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +The favour'd forms that wait on thee. + +The moss to guard thy feet is spread, +The wreaths are woven for thy head, +The rosy curtains of thy bed +Become transparent in the blaze +Of the strong sun's resistless gaze: +Then lady, make no more delay, +The world still lives, though spring be dead-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +And thou must rule and reign instead. + +The lady from her bed arose, +Her bed the leaves the moss-bud blows +Herself a lily in that rose; +The maidens of the streams and sands +Bathe some her feet and some her hands: +And some the emerald robes display; +Her dewy locks were then upcurled, + And lovely May--the long'd-for May-- +Was crown'd the Queen of all the World! + + + +THE SEARCH. + +Let us seek the modest May, + She is down in the glen, + Hiding and abiding + From the common gaze of men, + Where the silver streamlet crosses + O'er the smooth stones green with mosses, + And glancing and dancing, + Goes singing on its way-- +We shall find the modest maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the merry May, + She is up on the hill, + Laughing and quaffing + From the fountain and the rill. + Where the southern zephyr sprinkles, + Like bright smiles on age's wrinkles, + O'er the edges and ledges + Of the rocks, the wild flowers gay-- +We shall find the merry maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the musing May, + She is deep in the wood, + Viewing and pursuing + The beautiful and good. + Where the grassy bank receding, + Spreads its quiet couch for reading + The pages of the sages, + And the poet's lyric lay-- +We shall find the musing maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the mirthful May, + She is out on the strand + Racing and chasing + The ripples o'er the sand. + Where the warming waves discover + All the treasures that they cover, + Whitening and brightening + The pebbles for her play-- +We shall find the mirthful maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the wandering May, + She is off to the plain, + Finding the winding + Of the labyrinthine lane. + She is passing through its mazes + While the hawthorn, as it gazes + With grief, lets its leaflets + Whiten all the way-- +We shall find the wandering maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek her in the ray-- + Let us track her by the rill-- + Wending ascending + The slopings of the hill. + Where the robin from the copses + Breathes a love-note, and then drops his + Trilling, till, willing, + His mate responds his lay-- +We shall find the listening maiden there to-day. + +But why seek her far away? + Like a young bird in its nest, + She is warming and forming + Her dwelling in her breast. + While the heart she doth repose on, + Like the down the sunwind blows on, + Gloweth, yet showeth + The trembling of the ray-- +We shall find the happy maiden there to-day. + + + +THE TIDINGS. + +A bright beam came to my window frame, + This sweet May morn, +And it said to the cold, hard glass: + Oh! let me pass, +For I have good news to tell, +The queen of the dewy dell, + The beautiful May is born! + +Warm with the race, through the open space, + This sweet May morn, +Came a soft wind out of the skies: + And it said to my heart--Arise! +Go forth from the winter's fire, +For the child of thy long desire, + The beautiful May is born! + +The bright beam glanced and the soft wind danced, + This sweet May morn, +Over my cheek and over my eyes; + And I said with a glad surprise: +Oh! lead me forth, ye blessed twain, +Over the hill and over the plain, + Where the beautiful May is born. + +Through the open door leaped the beam before + This sweet May morn, +And the soft wind floated along, + Like a poet's song, +Warm from his heart and fresh from his brain; +And they led me over the mount and plain, + To the beautiful May new-born. + +My guide so bright and my guide so light, + This sweet May morn, +Led me along o'er the grassy ground, + And I knew by each joyous sight and sound, +The fields so green and the skies so gay, +That heaven and earth kept holiday, + That the beautiful May was born. + +Out of the sea with their eyes of glee, + This sweet May morn, +Came the blue waves hastily on; + And they murmuring cried--Thou happy one! +Show us, O Earth! thy darling child, +For we heard far out on the ocean wild, + That the beautiful May was born. + +The wing`ed flame to the rosebud came, + This sweet May morn, +And it said to the flower--Prepare! + Lay thy nectarine bosom bare; +Full soon, full soon, thou must rock to rest, +And nurse and feed on thy glowing breast, + The beautiful May now born. + +The gladsome breeze through the trembling trees, + This sweet May morn, +Went joyously on from bough to bough; + And it said to the red-branched plum--O thou, +Cover with mimic pearls and gems, +And with silver bells, thy coral stems, + For the beautiful May now born. + +Under the eaves and through the leaves + This sweet May morn, +The soft wind whispering flew: + And it said to the listening birds--Oh, you, +Sweet choristers of the skies, +Awaken your tenderest lullabies, + For the beautiful May now born. + +The white cloud flew to the uttermost blue, + This sweet May morn, +It bore, like a gentle carrier-dove, + The bless`ed news to the realms above; +While its sister coo'd in the midst of the grove, +And within my heart the spirit of love, + That the beautiful May was born! + + + +WELCOME, MAY. + +Welcome, May! welcome, May! +Thou hast been too long away, + All the widow'd wintry hours +Wept for thee, gentle May; + But the fault was only ours-- +We were sad when thou wert gay! + +Welcome, May! welcome, May! +We are wiser far to-day-- + Fonder, too, than we were then. +Gentle May! joyous May! + Now that thou art come again, +We perchance may make thee stay. + +Welcome, May! welcome, May! +Everything kept holiday + Save the human heart alone. +Mirthful May! gladsome May! + We had cares and thou hadst none +When thou camest last this way! + +When thou camest last this way +Blossoms bloomed on every spray, + Buds on barren boughs were born-- +Fertile May! fruitful May! + Like the rose upon the thorn +Cannot grief awhile be gay? + +'Tis not for the golden ray, +Or the flowers that strew thy way, + O immortal One! thou art +Here to-day, gentle May-- + 'Tis to man's ungrateful heart +That thy fairy footsteps stray. + +'Tis to give that living clay +Flowers that ne'er can fade away-- + Fond remembrances of bliss; +And a foretaste, mystic May, + Of the life that follows this, +Full of joys that last alway! + +Other months are cold and gray, +Some are bright, but what are they? + Earth may take the whole eleven-- +Hopeful May--happy May! + Thine the borrowed month of heaven +Cometh thence and points the way. + +Wing`ed minstrels come and play +Through the woods their roundelay; + Who can tell but only thou, +Spirit-ear'd, inspir`ed May, + On the bud-embow'r`ed bough +What the happy lyrists say? + +Is the burden of their lay +Love's desire, or Love's decay? + Are there not some fond regrets +Mix'd with these, divinest May, + For the sun that never sets +Down the everlasting day? + +But upon thy wondrous way +Mirth alone should dance and play-- + No regrets, how fond they be, +E'er should wound the ear of May-- + Bow before her, flower and tree! +Nor, my heart, do thou delay. + + + +THE MEETING OF THE FLOWERS. + +There is within this world of ours + Full many a happy home and hearth; + What time, the Saviour's blessed birth +Makes glad the gloom of wintry hours. + +When back from severed shore and shore, + And over seas that vainly part, + The scattered embers of the heart +Glow round the parent hearth once more. + +When those who now are anxious men, + Forget their growing years and cares; + Forget the time-flakes on their hairs, +And laugh, light-hearted boys again. + +When those who now are wedded wives, + By children of their own embraced, + Recall their early joys, and taste +Anew the childhood of their lives. + +And the old people--the good sire + And kindly parent-mother--glow + To feel their children's children throw +Fresh warmth around the Christmas fire. + +When in the sweet colloquial din, + Unheard the sullen sleet-winds shout; + And though the winter rage without, +The social summer reigns within. + +But in this wondrous world of ours + Are other circling kindred chords, + Binding poor harmless beasts and birds, +And the fair family of flowers. + +That family that meet to-day + From many a foreign field and glen, + For what is Christmas-tide with men +Is with the flowers the time of May. + +Back to the meadows of the West, + Back to their natal fields they come; + And as they reach their wished-for home, +The Mother folds them to her breast. + +And as she breathes, with balmy sighs, + A fervent blessing over them, + The tearful, glistening dews begem +The parents' and the children's eyes. + +She spreads a carpet for their feet, + And mossy pillows for their heads, + And curtains round their fairy beds +With blossom-broidered branches sweet. + +She feeds them with ambrosial food, + And fills their cups with nectared wine; + And all her choristers combine +To sing their welcome from the wood: + +And all that love can do is done, + As shown to them in countless ways: + She kindles to the brighter blaze +The fireside of the world--the sun. + +And with her own soft, trembling hands, + In many a calm and cool retreat, + She laves the dust that soils their feet +In coming from the distant lands. + +Or, leading down some sinuous path, + Where the shy stream's encircling heights + Shut out all prying eyes, invites +Her lily daughters to the bath. + +There, with a mother's harmless pride, + Admires them sport the waves among: + Now lay their ivory limbs along +The buoyant bosom of the tide. + +Now lift their marble shoulders o'er + The rippling glass, or sink with fear, + As if the wind approaching near +Were some wild wooer from the shore. + +Or else the parent turns to these, + The younglings born beneath her eye, + And hangs the baby-buds close by, +In wind-rocked cradles from the trees. + +And as the branches fall and rise, + Each leafy-folded swathe expands: + And now are spread their tiny hands, +And now are seen their starry eyes. + +But soon the feast concludes the day, + And yonder in the sun-warmed dell, + The happy circle meet to tell +Their labours since the bygone May. + +A bright-faced youth is first to raise + His cheerful voice above the rest, + Who bears upon his hardy breast +A golden star with silver rays:[109] + +Worthily won, for he had been + A traveller in many a land, + And with his slender staff in hand +Had wandered over many a green: + +Had seen the Shepherd Sun unpen + Heaven's fleecy flocks, and let them stray + Over the high-pealed Himalay, +Till night shut up the fold again: + +Had sat upon a mossy ledge, + O'er Baiae in the morning's beams, + Or where the sulphurous crater steams +Had hung suspended from the edge: + +Or following its devious course + Up many a weary winding mile, + Had tracked the long, mysterious Nile +Even to its now no-fabled source: + +Resting, perchance, as on he strode, + To see the herded camels pass + Upon the strips of wayside grass +That line with green the dust-white road. + +Had often closed his weary lids + In oases that deck the waste, + Or in the mighty shadows traced +By the eternal pyramids. + +Had slept within an Arab's tent, + Pitched for the night beneath a palm, + Or when was heard the vesper psalm, +With the pale nun in worship bent: + +Or on the moonlit fields of France, + When happy village maidens trod + Lightly the fresh and verdurous sod, +There was he seen amid the dance: + +Yielding with sympathizing stem + To the quick feet that round him flew, + Sprang from the ground as they would do, +Or sank unto the earth with them: + +Or, childlike, played with girl and boy + By many a river's bank, and gave + His floating body to the wave, +Full many a time to give them joy. + +These and a thousand other tales + The traveller told, and welcome found; + These were the simple tales went round +The happy circles in the vales. + +Keeping reserved with conscious pride + His noblest act, his crowning feat, + How he had led even Humboldt's feet +Up Chimborazo's mighty side. + +Guiding him through the trackless snow, + By sheltered clefts of living soil, + Sweet'ning the fearless traveller's toil, +With memories of the world below. + +Such was the hardy Daisy's tale, + And then the maidens of the group-- + Lilies, whose languid heads down droop +Over their pearl-white shoulders pale-- + +Told, when the genial glow of June + Had passed, they sought still warmer climes + And took beneath the verdurous limes +Their sweet siesta through the noon: + +And seeking still, with fond pursuit, + The phantom Health, which lures and wiles + Its followers to the shores and isles +Of amber waves, and golden fruit. + +There they had seen the orange grove + Enwreath its gold with buds of white, + As if themselves had taken flight, +And settled on the boughs above. + +There kiss'd by every rosy mouth + And press'd to every gentle breast, + These pallid daughters of the West +Reigned in the sunshine of the South. + +And thoughtful of the things divine, + Were oft by many an altar found, + Standing like white-robed angels round +The precincts of some sacred shrine. + +And Violets, with dark blue eyes, + Told how they spent the winter time, + In Andalusia's Eden clime, +Or 'neath Italia's kindred skies. + +Chiefly when evening's golden gloom + Veil'd Rome's serenest ether soft, + Bending in thoughtful musings oft, +Above the lost Alastor's tomb; + +Or the twin-poet's; he who sings + "A thing of beauty never dies," + Paying them back in fragrant sighs, +The love they bore all loveliest things. + +The flower[110] whose bronz`ed cheeks recalls + The incessant beat of wind and sun, + Spoke of the lore his search had won +Upon Pompeii's rescued walls. + +How, in his antiquarian march, + He crossed the tomb-strewn plain of Rome, + Sat on some prostrate plinth, or clomb +The Coliseum's topmost arch. + +And thence beheld in glad amaze + What Nero's guilty eyes, aloof, + Drank in from off his golden roof-- +The sun-bright city all ablaze: + +Ablaze by day with solar fires-- + Ablaze by night with lunar beams, + With lambent lustre on its streams, +And golden glories round its spires! + +Thence he beheld that wondrous dome, + That, rising o'er the radiant town, + Circles, with Art's eternal crown, +The still imperial brow of Rome. + +Nor was the Marigold remiss, + But told how in her crown of gold + She sat, like Persia's king of old, +High o'er the shores of Salamis; + +And saw, against the morning sky, + The white-sailed fleets their wings display; + And ere the tranquil close of day, +Fade, like the Persian's from her eye. + +Fleets, with their white flags all unfurl'd, + Inscribed with "Commerce," and with "Peace," + Bearing no threatened ill to Greece, +But mutual good to all the world. + +And various other flowers were seen: + Cowslip and Oxlip, and the tall + Tulip, whose grateful hearts recall +The winter homes where they had been. + +Some in the sunny vales, beneath + The sheltering hills; and some, whose eyes + Were gladdened by the southern skies, +High up amid the blooming heath. + +Meek, modest flowers, by poets loved, + Sweet Pansies, with their dark eyes fringed + With silken lashes finely tinged, +That trembled if a leaf but moved: + +And some in gardens where the grass + Mossed o'er the green quadrangle's breast, + There dwelt each flower, a welcome guest, +In crystal palaces of glass: + +Shown as a beauteous wonder there, + By beauty's hands to beauty's eyes, + Breathing what mimic art supplies, +The genial glow of sun-warm air. + +Nor were the absent ones forgot, + Those whom a thousand cares detained, + Those whom the links of duty chained +Awhile from this their natal spot. + +One, who is labour's useful tracks + Is proudly eminent, who roams + The providence of humble homes-- +The blue-eyed, fair-haired, friendly Flax: + +Giving himself to cheer and light + The cottier's else o'ershadowing murk, + Filling his hand with cheerful work, +And all his being with delight: + +And one, the loveliest and the last, + For whom they waited day by day, + All through the merry month of May, +Till one-and-thirty days had passed. + +And when, at length, the longed-for noon + Of night arched o'er th' expectant green + The Rose, their sister and their queen-- +Came on the joyous wings of June: + +And when was heard the gladsome sound, + And when was breath'd her beauteous name, + Unnumbered buds, like lamps of flame, +Gleamed from the hedges all around: + +Where she had been, the distant clime, + The orient realm their sceptre sways, + The poet's pen may paint and praise +Hereafter in his simple rhyme. + + +109. The Daisy. + +110. The Wallflower. + + + +THE PROGRESS OF THE ROSE. + +The days of old, the good old days, + Whose misty memories haunt us still, +Demand alike our blame and praise, + And claim their shares of good and ill. + +They had strong faith in things unseen, + But stronger in the things they saw +Revenge for Mercy's pitying mien, + And lordly Right for equal Law. + +'Tis true the cloisters all throughout + The valleys rais'd their peaceful towers, +And their sweet bells ne'er wearied out + In telling of the tranquil hours. + +But from the craggy hills above, + A shadow darken'd o'er the sward; +For there--a vulture to this dove-- + Hung the rude fortress of the lord; + +Whence oft the ravening bird of prey + Descending, to his eyry wild +Bore, with exulting cries, away + The powerless serf's dishonour'd child. + +Then Safety lit with partial beams + But the high-castled peaks of Force, +And Polity revers'd its streams, + And bade them flow but for their Source. + +That Source from which, meandering down, + A thousand streamlets circle now; +For then the monarch's glorious crown + But girt the most rapacious brow. + +But individual Force is dead, + And link'd Opinion late takes birth; +And now a woman's gentle head + Supports the mightiest crown on earth. + +A pleasing type of all the change + Permitted to our eyes to see, +When she herself is free to range + Throughout the realm her rule makes free. + +Not prison'd in a golden cage, + To sigh or sing her lonely state, +A show for youth or doating age, + With idiot eyes to contemplate. + +But when the season sends a thrill + To ev'ry heart that lives and moves, +She seeks the freedom of the hill, + Or shelter of the noontide groves. + +There, happy with her chosen mate, + And circled by her chirping brood, +Forgets the pain of being great + In the mere bliss of being good. + +And thus the festive summer yields + No sight more happy, none so gay, +As when amid her subject-fields + She wanders on from day to day. + +Resembling her, whom proud and fond, + The bard hath sung of--she of old, +Who bore upon her snow-white wand, + All Erin through, the ring of gold. + +Thus, from her castles coming forth, + She wanders many a summer hour, +Bearing the ring of private worth + Upon the silver wand of Power. + +Thus musing, while around me flew + Sweet airs from fancy's amaranth bowers, +Methought, what this fair queen doth do, + Hath yearly done the queen of flowers. + +The beauteous queen of all the flowers, + Whose faintest sigh is like a spell, +Was born in Eden's sinless bowers + Long ere our primal parents fell. + +There in a perfect form she grew, + Nor felt decay, nor tasted death; +Heaven was reflected in her hue, + And heaven's own odours filled her breath. + +And ere the angel of the sword + Drove thence the founders of our race, +They knelt before him, and implor'd + Some relic of that radiant place: + +Some relic that, while time would last, + Should make men weep their fatal sin; +Proof of the glory that was past, + And type of that they yet might win. + +The angel turn'd, and ere his hands + The gates of bliss for ever close, +Pluck'd from the fairest tree that stands + Within heaven's walls--the peerless rose. + +And as he gave it unto them, + Let fall a tear upon its leaves-- +The same celestial liquid gem + We oft perceive on dewy eves. + +Grateful the hapless twain went forth, + The golden portals backward whirl'd, +Then first they felt the biting north, + And all the rigour of this world. + +Then first the dreadful curse had power + To chill the life-streams at their source, +Till e'en the sap within the flower + Grew curdled in its upward course. + +They twin'd their trembling hands across + Their trembling breasts against the drift, +Then sought some little mound of moss + Wherein to lay their precious gift. + +Some little soft and mossy mound, + Wherein the flower might rest till morn; +In vain! God's curse was on the ground, + For through the moss out gleam'd the thorn! + +Out gleam'd the fork`ed plant, as if + The serpent tempter, in his rage, +Had put his tongue in every leaf + To mock them through their pilgrimage. + +They did their best; their hands eras'd + The thorns of greater strength and size; +Then 'mid the softer moss they plac'd + The exiled flower of paradise. + +The plant took root; the beams and showers + Came kindly, and its fair head rear'd; +But lo! around its heaven of flowers + The thorns and moss of earth appear'd. + +Type of the greater change that then + Upon our hapless nature fell, +When the degenerate hearts of men + Bore sin and all the thorns of hell. + +Happy, indeed, and sweet our pain, + However torn, however tost, +If, like the rose, our hearts retain + Some vestige of the heaven we've lost. + +Where she upon this colder sphere + Found shelter first, she there abode; +Her native bowers, unseen were near, + And near her still Euphrates flowed-- + +Brilliantly flow'd; but, ah! how dim, + Compar'd to what its light had been;-- +As if the fiery cherubim + Let pass the tide, but kept its sheen. + +At first she liv'd and reigned alone, + No lily-maidens yet had birth; +No turban'd tulips round her throne + Bow'd with their foreheads to the earth. + +No rival sisters had she yet-- + She with the snowy forehead fringed +With blushes; nor the sweet brunette + Whose cheek the yellow sun has ting'd. + +Nor all the harbingers of May, + Nor all the clustering joys of June: +Uncarpeted the bare earth lay, + Unhung the branches' gay festoon. + +But Nature came in kindly mood, + And gave her kindred of her own, +Knowing full well it is not good + For man or flower to be alone. + +Long in her happy court she dwelt, + In floral games and feasts of mirth, +Until her heart kind wishes felt + To share her joy with all the earth. + +To go from longing land to land + A stateless queen, a welcome guest, +O'er hill and vale, by sea and strand, + From North to South, and East to West. + +And thus it is that every year, + Ere Autumn dons his russet robe, +She calls her unseen charioteer, + And makes her progress through the globe. + +First, sharing in the month-long feast-- + "The Feast of Roses"--in whose light +And grateful joy, the first and least + Of all her subjects reunite. + +She sends her heralds on before: + The bee rings out his bugle bold, +The daisy spreads her marbled floor, + The buttercup her cloth of gold. + +The lark leaps up into the sky, + To watch her coming from afar; +The larger moon descends more nigh, + More lingering lags the morning star. + +From out the villages and towns, + From all of mankind's mix'd abodes, +The people, by the lawns and downs, + Go meet her on the winding roads. + +And some would bear her in their hands, + And some would press her to their breast, +And some would worship where she stands, + And some would claim her as their guest. + +Her gracious smile dispels the gloom + Of many a love-sick girl and boy; +Her very presence in a room + Doth fill the languid air with joy. + +Her breath is like a fragrant tune, + She is the soul of every spot; +Gives nature to the rich saloon, + And splendour to the peasant's cot. + +Her mission is to calm and soothe, + And purely glad life's every stage; +Her garlands grace the brow of youth, + And hide the hollow lines of age. + +But to the poet she belongs, + By immemorial ties of love;-- +Herself a folded book of songs, + Dropp'd from the angel's hands above. + +Then come and make his heart thy home, + For thee it opes, for thee it glows;-- +Type of ideal beauty, come! + Wonder of Nature! queenly Rose! + + + +THE BATH OF THE STREAMS. + +Down unto the ocean, +Trembling with emotion, +Panting at the notion, + See the rivers run-- +In the golden weather, +Tripping o'er the heather, +Laughing all together-- + Madcaps every one. + +Like a troop of girls +In their loosen'd curls, +See, the concourse whirls + Onward wild with glee; +List their tuneful tattle, +Hear their pretty prattle, +How they'll love to battle + With the assailing sea. + +See, the winds pursue them, +See, the willows woo them +See, the lakelets view them + Wistfully afar, +With a wistful wonder +Down the green slopes under, +Wishing, too, to thunder + O'er their prison bar. + +Wishing, too, to wander +By the sea-waves yonder, +There awhile to squander + All their silvery stores, +There awhile forgetting +All their vain regretting +When their foam went fretting + Round the rippling shores. + +Round the rocky region, +Whence their prison'd legion, +Oft and oft besieging, + Vainly sought to break, +Vainly sought to throw them +O'er the vales below them, +Through the clefts that show them + Paths they dare not take. + +But the swift streams speed them +In the might of freedom, +Down the paths that lead them + Joyously along. +Blinding green recesses +With their floating tresses, +Charming wildernesses + With their murmuring song. + +Now the streams are gliding +With a sweet abiding-- +Now the streams are hiding + 'Mid the whispering reeds-- +Now the streams outglancing +With a shy advancing +Naiad-like go dancing + Down the golden meads. + +Down the golden meadows, +Chasing their own shadows-- +Down the golden meadows, + Playing as they run: +Playing with the sedges, +By the water's edges, +Leaping o'er the ledges, + Glist'ning in the sun: + +Streams and streamlets blending, +Each on each attending, +All together wending, + Seek the silver sands; +Like the sisters holding +With a fond enfolding-- +Like to sisters holding + One another's hands. + +Now with foreheads blushing +With a rapturous flushing-- +Now the streams are rushing + In among the waves. +Now in shy confusion, +With a pale suffusion, +Seek the wild seclusion + Of sequestered caves. + +All the summer hours +Hiding in the bowers, +Scattering silver showers + Out upon the strand; +O'er the pebbles crashing, +Through the ripples splashing, +Liquid pearl-wreaths dashing + From each other's hand. + +By yon mossy boulder, +See an ivory shoulder, +Dazzling the beholder, + Rises o'er the blue; +But a moment's thinking, +Sends the Naiad sinking, +With a modest shrinking, + From the gazer's view. + +Now the wave compresses +All their golden tresses-- +Now their sea-green dresses + Float them o'er the tide; +Now with elf-locks dripping +From the brine they're sipping, +With a fairy tripping, + Down the green waves glide. + +Some that scarce have tarried +By the shore are carried +Sea-ward to be married + To the glad gods there: +Triton's horn is playing, +Neptune's steeds are neighing, +Restless with delaying + For a bride so fair. + +See at first the river +How its pale lips quiver, +How its white waves shiver + With a fond unrest; +List how low it sigheth, +See how swift it flieth, +Till at length it lieth + On the ocean's breast. + +Such is Youth's admiring, +Such is Love's desiring, +Such is Hope's aspiring + For the higher goal; +Such is man's condition +Till in heaven's fruition +Ends the mystic mission + Of the eternal soul. + + + +THE FLOWERS OF THE TROPICS. + +"C'est ainsi qu'elle nature a mis, entre les tropiques, la plupart des +fleurs apparentes sur des arbres. J'y en ai vu bien peu dans les +prairies, mais beaucoup dans les forets. Dans ces pays, il faut lever +les yeux en haut pour y voir des fleurs; dans le notre, il faut les +baisser a terre."--SAINT PIERRE, "Etudes de la Nature." + +In the soft sunny regions that circle the waist + Of the globe with a girdle of topaz and gold, +Which heave with the throbbings of life where they're placed, + And glow with the fire of the heart they enfold; +Where to live, where to breathe, seems a paradise dream-- + A dream of some world more elysian than this-- +Where, if Death and if Sin were away, it would seem + Not the foretaste alone, but the fulness of bliss. + +Where all that can gladden the sense and the sight, + Fresh fruitage as cool and as crimson as even; +Where the richness and rankness of Nature unite + To build the frail walls of the Sybarite's heaven. +But, ah! should the heart feel the desolate dearth + Of some purer enjoyment to speed the bright hours, +In vain through the leafy luxuriance of earth + Looks the languid-lit eye for the freshness of flowers. + +No, its glance must be turned from the earth to the sky, + From the clay-rooted grass to the heaven-branching trees; +And there, oh! enchantment for soul and for eye, + Hang blossoms so pure that an angel might seize. +Thus, when pleasure begins from its sweetness to cloy, + And the warm heart grows rank like a soil over ripe, +We must turn from the earth for some promise of joy, + And look up to heaven for a holier type. + +In the climes of the North, which alternately shine, + Now warm with the sunbeam, now white with the snow, +And which, like the breast of the earth they entwine. + Grow chill with its chillness, or glow with its glow, +In those climes where the soul, on more vigorous wing, + Rises soaring to heaven in its rapturous flight, +And, led ever on by the radiance they fling, + Tracketh star after star through infinitude's night. + +How oft doth the seer from his watch-tower on high. + Scan the depths of the heavens with his wonderful glass; +And, like Adam of old, when Earth's creatures went by, + Name the orbs and the sun-lighted spheres as they pass. +How often, when drooping, and weary, and worn, + With fire-throbbing temples and star-dazzled eyes, +Does he turn from his glass at the breaking of morn, + And exchanges for flowers all the wealth of the skies? + +Ah! thus should we mingle the far and the near, + And, while striving to pierce what the Godhead conceals, +From the far heights of Science look down with a fear + To the lowliest truths the same Godhead reveals. +When the rich fruit of Joy glads the heart and the mouth, + Or the bold wing of Thought leads the daring soul forth; +Let us proudly look up as for flowers of the south, + Let us humbly look down as for flowers of the north. + + + +THE YEAR-KING. + +It is the last of all the days, +The day on which the Old Year dies. +Ah! yes, the fated hour is near; +I see upon his snow-white bier +Outstretched the weary wanderer lies, +And mark his dying gaze. + +A thousand visions dark and fair, +Crowd on the old man's fading sight; +A thousand mingled memories throng +The old man's heart, still green and strong; +The heritage of wrong and right +He leaves unto his heir. + +He thinks upon his budding hopes, +The day he stood the world's young king, +Upon his coronation morn, +When diamonds hung on every thorn, +And peeped the pearl flowers of the spring +Adown the emerald slopes. + +He thinks upon his youthful pride, +When in his ermined cloak of snow, +Upon his war-horse, stout and staunch-- +The cataract-crested avalanche-- +He thundered on the rocks below, +With his warriors at his side. + +From rock to rock, through cloven scalp, +By rivers rushing to the sea, +With thunderous sound his army wound +The heaven supporting hills around; +Like that the Man of Destiny +Led down the astonished Alp. + +The bugles of the blast rang out, +The banners of the lightning swung, +The icy spear-points of the pine +Bristled along the advancing line, +And as the winds' 'reveille' rung, +Heavens! how the hills did shout. + +Adown each slippery precipice +Rattled the loosen'd rocks, like balls +Shot from his booming thunder guns, +Whose smoke, effacing stars and suns, +Darkens the stifled heaven, and falls +Far off in arrowy showers of ice. + +Ah! yes, he was a mighty king, +A mighty king, full flushed with youth; +He cared not then what ruin lay +Upon his desolating way; +Not his the cause of God or Truth, +But the brute lust of conquering. + +Nought could resist his mighty will, +The green grass withered where he stood; +His ruthless hands were prompt to seize +Upon the tresses of the trees; +Then shrieked the maidens of the wood, +And the saplings of the hill. + +Nought could resist his mighty will; +For in his ranks rode spectral Death; +The old expired through very fear; +And pined the young, when he came near; +The faintest flutter of his breath +Was sharp enough to kill. + +Nought could resist his mighty will; +The flowers fell dead beneath his tread; +The streams of life, that through the plains +Throb night and day through crystal veins, +With feverish pulses frighten'd fled, +Or curdled, and grew still. + +Nought could resist his mighty will; +On rafts of ice, blue-hued, like steel, +He crossed the broadest rivers o'er +Ah! me, and then was heard no more +The murmur of the peaceful wheel +That turned the peasant's mill. + +But why the evil that attends +On War recall to further view? +Accurs`ed War!--the world too well +Knows what thou art--thou fiend of hell! +The heartless havoc of a few +For their own selfish ends! + +Soon, soon the youthful conqueror +Felt moved, and bade the horrors cease; +Nature resumed its ancient sway, +Warm tears rolled down the cheeks of Day, +And Spring, the harbinger of peace +Proclaimed the fight was o'er. + +Oh! what a change came o'er the world; +The winds, that cut like naked swords, +Shed balm upon the wounds they made; +And they who came the first to aid +The foray of grim Winter's hordes +The flag of truce unfurled. + +Oh! how the song of joy, the sound +Of rapture thrills the leaguered camps +The tinkling showers like cymbals clash +Upon the late leaves of the ash, +And blossoms hang like festal lamps +On all the trees around. + +And there is sunshine, sent to strew +God's cloth of gold, whereon may dance, +To music that harmonious moves, +The link`ed Graces and the Loves, +Making reality romance, +And rare romance even more than true. + +The fields laughed out in dimpling flowers, +The streams' blue eyes flashed bright with smiles; +The pale-faced clouds turned rosy-red, +As they looked down from overhead, +Then fled o'er continents and isles, +To shed their happy tears in showers. + +The youthful monarch's heart grew light +To find what joy good deeds can shed; +To nurse the orphan buds that bent +Over each turf-piled monument, +Wherein the parent flowers lay dead +Who perished in that fight. + +And as he roamed from day to day, +Atoning thus to flower and tree, +Flinging his lavish gold around +In countless yellow flowers, he found, +By gladsome-weeping April's knee, +The modest maiden May. + +Oh! she was young as angels are, +Ere the eternal youth they lead +Gives any clue to tell the hours +They've spent in heaven's elysian bowers; +Ere God before their eyes decreed +The birth-day of some beauteous star. + +Oh! she was fair as are the leaves +Of pale white roses, when the light +Of sunset, through some trembling bough, +Kisses the queen-flower's blushing brow, +Nor leaves it red nor marble white, +But rosy-pale, like April eves. + +Her eyes were like forget-me-nots, +Dropped in the silvery snowdrop's cup, +Or on the folded myrtle buds, +The azure violet of the woods; +Just as the thirsty sun drinks up +The dewy diamonds on the plots. + +And her sweet breath was like the sighs +Breathed by a babe of youth and love; +When all the fragrance of the south +From the cleft cherry of its mouth, +Meets the fond lips that from above +Stoop to caress its slumbering eyes. + +He took the maiden by the hand, +And led her in her simple gown +Unto a hamlet's peaceful scene, +Upraised her standard on the green; +And crowned her with a rosy crown +The beauteous Queen of all the land. + +And happy was the maiden's reign-- +For peace, and mirth, and twin-born love +Came forth from out men's hearts that day, +Their gladsome fealty to pay; +And there was music in the grove, +And dancing on the plain. + +And Labour carolled at his task, +Like the blithe bird that sings and builds +His happy household 'mid the leaves; +And now the fibrous twig he weaves, +And now he sings to her who gilds +The sole horizon he doth ask. + +And Sickness half forgot its pain, +And Sorrow half forgot its grief; +And Eld forgot that it was old, +As if to show the age of gold +Was not the poet's fond belief, +But every year comes back again. + +The Year-King passed along his way: +Rejoiced, rewarded, and content; +He passed to distant lands and new; +For other tasks he had to do; +But wheresoe'er the wanderer went, +He ne'er forgot his darling May. + +He sent her stems of living gold +From the rich plains of western lands, +And purple-gushing grapes from vines +Born of the amorous sun that shines +Where Tagus rolls its golden sands, +Or Guadalete old. + +And citrons from Firenze's fields, +And golden apples from the isles +That gladden the bright southern seas, +True home of the Hesperides: +Which now no dragon guards, but smiles, +The bounteous mother, as she yields. + +And then the king grew old like Lear-- +His blood waxed chill, his beard grew gray; +He changed his sceptre for a staff: +And as the thoughtless children laugh +To see him totter on his way, +He knew his destined hour was near. + +And soon it came; and here he strives, +Outstretched upon his snow-white bier, +To reconcile the dread account-- +How stands the balance, what the amount; +As we shall do with trembling fear +When our last hour arrives. + +Come, let us kneel around his bed, +And pray unto his God and ours +For mercy on his servant here: +Oh, God be with the dying year! +And God be with the happy hours +That died before their sire lay dead! + +And as the bells commingling ring +The New Year in, the Old Year out, +Muffled and sad, and now in peals +With which the quivering belfry reels, +Grateful and hopeful be the shout, +The King is dead!--Long live the King! + + + +THE AWAKING. + +A lady came to a snow-white bier, + Where a youth lay pale and dead: + She took the veil from her widowed head, + And, bending low, in his ear she said: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +She pass'd with a smile to a wild wood near, + Where the boughs were barren and bare; + She tapp'd on the bark with her fingers fair, + And call'd to the leaves that were buried there: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The birds beheld her without a fear, + As she walk'd through the dank-moss'd dells; + She breathed on their downy citadels, + And whisper'd the young in their ivory shells: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +On the graves of the flowers she dropp'd a tear, + But with hope and with joy, like us; + And even as the Lord to Lazarus, + She call'd to the slumbering sweet flowers thus: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +To the lilies that lay in the silver mere, + To the reeds by the golden pond; + To the moss by the rounded marge beyond, + She spoke with her voice so soft and fond: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The violet peep'd, with its blue eye clear, + From under its own gravestone; + For the blessed tidings around had flown, + And before she spoke the impulse was known: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The pale grass lay with its long looks sere + On the breast of the open plain; + She loosened the matted hair of the slain, + And cried, as she filled each juicy vein: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The rush rose up with its pointed spear + The flag, with its falchion broad; + The dock uplifted its shield unawed, + As her voice rung over the quickening sod: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The red blood ran through the clover near, + And the heath on the hills o'erhead; + The daisy's fingers were tipp'd with red, + As she started to life, when the lady said: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +And the young Year rose from his snow-white bier, + And the flowers from their green retreat; + And they came and knelt at the lady's feet, + Saying all, with their mingled voices sweet: + "O lady! behold us here." + + + +THE RESURRECTION. + +The day of wintry wrath is o'er, +The whirlwind and the storm have pass'd, +The whiten'd ashes of the snow +Enwrap the ruined world no more; +Nor keenly from the orient blow +The venom'd hissings of the blast. + +The frozen tear-drops of despair +Have melted from the trembling thorn; +Hope plumes unseen her radiant wing, +And lo! amid the expectant air, +The trumpet of the angel Spring +Proclaims the resurrection morn. + +Oh! what a wave of gladsome sound +Runs rippling round the shores of space, +As the requicken'd earth upheaves +The swelling bosom of the ground, +And Death's cold pallor, startled, leaves +The deepening roses of her face. + +Up from their graves the dead arise-- +The dead and buried flowers of spring;-- +Up from their graves in glad amaze, +Once more to view the long-lost skies, +Resplendent with the dazzling rays +Of their great coming Lord and King. + +And lo! even like that mightiest one, +In the world's last and awful hour, +Surrounded by the starry seven, +So comes God's greatest work, the sun, +Upborne upon the clouds of heaven, +In pomp, and majesty, and power. + +The virgin snowdrop bends its head +Above its grave in grateful prayer; +The daisy lifts its radiant brow, +With a saint's glory round it shed; +The violet's worth, unhidden now, +Is wafted wide by every air. + +The parent stem reclasps once more +Its long-lost severed buds and leaves; +Once more the tender tendrils twine +Around the forms they clasped of yore +The very rain is now a sign +Great Nature's heart no longer grieves. + +And now the judgment-hour arrives, +And now their final doom they know; +No dreadful doom is theirs whose birth +Was not more stainless than their lives; +'Tis Goodness calls them from the earth, +And Mercy tells them where to go. + +Some of them fly with glad accord, +Obedient to the high behest, +To worship with their fragrant breath +Around the altars of the Lord; +And some, from nothingness and death, +Pass to the heaven of beauty's breast. + +Oh, let the simple fancy be +Prophetic of our final doom; +Grant us, O Lord, when from the sod +Thou deign'st to call us too, that we +Pass to the bosom of our God +From the dark nothing of the tomb! + + + +THE FIRST OF THE ANGELS. + +Hush! hush! through the azure expanse of the sky +Comes a low, gentle sound, 'twixt a laugh and a sigh; +And I rise from my writing, and look up on high, +And I kneel, for the first of God's angels is nigh! + +Oh, how to describe what my rapt eyes descry! +For the blue of the sky is the blue of his eye; +And the white clouds, whose whiteness the snowflakes outvie, +Are the luminous pinions on which he doth fly! + +And his garments of gold gleam at times like the pyre +Of the west, when the sun in a blaze doth expire; +Now tinged like the orange, now flaming with fire! +Half the crimson of roses and purple of Tyre. + +And his voice, on whose accents the angels have hung, +He himself a bright angel, immortal and young, +Scatters melody sweeter the green buds among +Than the poet e'er wrote, or the nightingale sung. + +It comes on the balm-bearing breath of the breeze, +And the odours that later will gladden the bees, +With a life and a freshness united to these, +From the rippling of waters and rustling of trees. + +Like a swan to its young o'er the glass of a pond, +So to earth comes the angel, as graceful and fond; +While a bright beam of sunshine--his magical wand, +Strikes the fields at my feet, and the mountains beyond. + +They waken--they start into life at a bound-- +Flowers climb the tall hillocks, and cover the ground +With a nimbus of glory the mountains are crown'd, +As the rivulets rush to the ocean profound. + +There is life on the earth, there is calm on the sea, +And the rough waves are smoothed, and the frozen are free; +And they gambol and ramble like boys, in their glee, +Round the shell-shining strand or the grass-bearing lea. + +There is love for the young, there is life for the old, +And wealth for the needy, and heat for the cold; +For the dew scatters, nightly, its diamonds untold, +And the snowdrop its silver, the crocus its gold! + +God!--whose goodness and greatness we bless and adore-- +Be Thou praised for this angel--the first of the four-- +To whose charge Thou has given the world's uttermost shore, +To guide it, and guard it, till time is no more! + + + +SPIRIT VOICES. + +There are voices, spirit voices, + Sweetly sounding everywhere, +At whose coming earth rejoices, + And the echoing realms of air, +And their joy and jubilation + Pierce the near and reach the far, +From the rapid world's gyration + To the twinkling of the star. + +One, a potent voice uplifting, + Stops the white cloud on its way, +As it drives with driftless drifting + O'er the vacant vault of day, +And in sounds of soft upbraiding + Calls it down the void inane +To the gilding and the shading + Of the mountain and the plain. + +Airy offspring of the fountains, + To thy destined duty sail, +Seek it on the proudest mountains, + Seek it in the humblest vale; +Howsoever high thou fliest, + How so deep it bids thee go, +Be a beacon to the highest + And a blessing to the low. + +When the sad earth, broken-hearted, + Hath not even a tear to shed, +And her very soul seems parted + For her children lying dead, +Send the streams with warmer pulses + Through that frozen fount of fears, +And the sorrow that convulses, + Soothe and soften down to tears. + +Bear the sunshine and the shadow, + Bear the rain-drop and the snow, +Bear the night-dew to the meadow, + And to hope the promised bow, +Bear the moon, a moving mirror + For her angel face and form, +Bear to guilt the flashing terror + Of the lightning and the storm. + +When thou thus hast done thy duty + On the earth and o'er the sea, +Bearing many a beam of beauty, + Ever bettering what must be, +Thus reflecting heaven's pure splendour + And concealing ruined clay, +Up to God thy spirit render, + And dissolving pass away. + +And with fond solicitation, + Speaks another to the streams-- +Leave your airy isolation, + Quit the cloudy land of dreams, +Break the lonely peak's attraction, + Burst the solemn, silent glen, +Seek the living world of action + And the busy haunts of men. + +Turn the mill-wheel with thy fingers, + Turn the steam-wheel with thy breath, +With thy tide that never lingers + Save the dying fields from death; +Let the swiftness of thy currents + Bear to man the freight-fill'd ship, +And the crystal of thy torrents + Bring refreshment to his lip. + +And when thou, O rapid river, + Thy eternal home dost seek, +When no more the willows quiver + But to touch thy passing cheek, +When the groves no longer greet thee + And the shore no longer kiss, +Let infinitude come meet thee + On the verge of the abyss. + +Other voices seek to win us-- + Low, suggestive, like the rest-- +But the sweetest is within us + In the stillness of the breast; +Be it ours, with fond desiring, + The same harvest to produce, +As the cloud in its aspiring + And the river in its use. + + + + +Centenary Odes. + + + +O'CONNELL. +AUGUST 6TH, 1875. + +Harp of my native land +That lived anew 'neath Carolan's master hand; +Harp on whose electric chords, +The minstrel Moore's melodious words, +Each word a bird that sings, +Borne as if on Ariel's wings, + Touched every tender soul + From listening pole to pole. +Sweet harp, awake once more: +What, though a ruder hand disturbs thy rest, + A theme so high + Will its own worth supply. +As finest gold is ever moulded best: +Or as a cannon on some festive day, +When sea and sky, when winds and waves rejoice, +Out-booms with thunderous voice, +Bids echo speak, and all the hills obey-- + +So let the verse in echoing accents ring, + So proudly sing, + With intermittent wail, +The nation's dead, but sceptred King, +The glory of the Gael. + + +1775. + +Six hundred stormy years have flown, +Since Erin fought to hold her own, +To hold her homes, her altars free, +Within her wall of circling sea. +No year of all those years had fled, +No day had dawned that was not red, +(Oft shed by fratricidal hand), +With the best blood of all the land. +And now, at last, the fight seemed o'er, +The sound of battle pealed no more; +Abject the prostrate people lay, +Nor dared to hope a better day; +An icy chill, a fatal frost, +Left them with all but honour lost, +Left them with only trust in God, +The lands were gone their fathers owned; +Poor pariahs on their native sod. +Their faith was banned, their prophets stoned; +Their temples crowning every height, +Now echoed with an alien rite, +Or silent lay each mouldering pile, +With shattered cross and ruined aisle. +Letters denied, forbade to pray, +And white-winged commerce scared away: +Ah, what can rouse the dormant life +That still survives the stormier strife? +What potent charm can once again +Relift the cross, rebuild the fane? +Free learning from felonious chains, +And give to youth immortal gains? +What signal mercy from on high?-- +Hush! hark! I hear an infant's cry, +The answer of a new-born child, +From Iveragh's far mountain wild. + +Yes, 'tis the cry of a child, feeble and faint in the night, + But soon to thunder in tones that will rouse both tyrants and slaves. +Yes, 'tis the sob of a stream just awake in its source on the height, + But soon to spread as a sea, and rush with the roaring of waves. + +Yes, 'tis the cry of a child affection hastens to still, + But what shall silence ere long the victor voice of the man? +Easy it is for a branch to bar the flow of the rill, + But all the forest would fail where raging the torrent once ran. + +And soon the torrent will run, and the pent-up waters o'erflow, + For the child has risen to a man, and a shout replaces the cry; +And a voice rings out through the world, so wing`ed with Erin's woe, + That charmed are the nations to listen, and the Destinies to reply. + +Boyhood had passed away from that child, predestined by fate + To dry the eyes of his mother, to end the worst of her ills, +And the terrible record of wrong, and the annals of hell and hate, + Had gathered into his breast like a lake in the heart of the hills. + +Brooding over the past, he found himself but a slave, + With manacles forged on his mind, and fetters on every limb; +The land that was life to others, to him was only a grave, + And however the race he ran no victor wreath was for him. + +The fane of learning was closed, shut out was the light of day, + No ray from the sun of science, no brightness from Greece or Rome, +And those who hungered for knowledge, like him, had to fly away, + Where bountiful France threw wide the gates that were shut at home. + +And there he happily learned a lore far better than books, + A lesson he taught for ever, and thundered over the land, +That Liberty's self is a terror, how lovely may be her looks, + If religion is not in her heart, and reverence guide not her hand. + +The steps of honour were barred: it was not for him to climb, + No glorious goal in the future, no prize for the labour of life, +And the fate of him and his people seemed fixed for all coming time + To hew the wood of the helot and draw the waters of strife. + +But the glorious youth returning + Back from France the fair and free, +Rage within his bosom burning, + Such a servile sight to see, + Vowed to heaven it should not be. +"No!" the youthful champion cried, +"Mother Ireland, widowed bride, +If thy freedom can be won +By the service of a son, + Then, behold that son in me. +I will give thee every hour, +Every day shall be thy dower, +In the splendour of the light, +In the watches of the night, +In the shine and in the shower, +I shall work but for thy right." + + +1782-1800. + +A dazzling gleam of evanescent glory, + Had passed away, and all was dark once more, +One golden page had lit the mournful story, + Which ruthless hands with envious rage out-tore. + +One glorious sun-burst, radiant and far-reaching, + Had pierced the cloudy veil dark ages wove, +When full-armed Freedom rose from Grattan's teaching, + As sprang Minerva from the brain of Jove. + +Oh! in the transient light that had outbroken, + How all the land with quickening fire was lit! +What golden words of deathless speech were spoken, + What lightning flashes of immortal wit! + +Letters and arts revived beneath its beaming, + Commerce and Hope outspread their swelling sails, +And with "Free Trade" upon their standard gleaming, + Now feared no foes and dared adventurous gales. + +Across the stream the graceful arch extended, + Above the pile the rounded dome arose, +The soaring spire to heaven's high vault ascended, + The loom hummed loud as bees at evening's close. + +And yet 'mid all this hope and animation, + The people still lay bound in bigot chains, +Freedom that gave some slight alleviation, + Could dare no panacea for their pains. + +Yet faithful to their country's quick uprising, + Like some fair island from volcanic waves, +They shared the triumph though their claims despising, + And hailed the freedom though themselves were slaves. + +But soon had come the final compensation, + Soon would the land one brotherhood have known, +Had not some spell of hellish incantation + The new-formed fane of Freedom overthrown. + +In one brief hour the fair mirage had faded, + No isle of flowers lay glad on ocean's green, +But in its stead, deserted and degraded, + The barren strand of Slavery's shore was seen. + + +1800-1829. + +Yet! 'twas on that barren strand +Sing his praise throughout the world! + Yet, 'twas on that barren strand, +O'er a cowed and broken band, + That his solitary hand + Freedom's flag unfurled. +Yet! 'twas there in Freedom's cause, + Freedom from unequal laws, + Freedom for each creed and class, + For humanity's whole mass, + That his voice outrang;-- + And the nation at a bound, + Stirred by the inspiring sound, + To his side up-sprang. + +Then the mighty work began, +Then the war of thirty years-- +Peaceful war, when words were spears, +And religion led the van. +When O'Connell's voice of power, +Day by day and hour by hour, +Raining down its iron shower, + Laid oppression low, +Till at length the war was o'er, +And Napoleon's conqueror, +Yielded to a mightier foe. + + +1829. + + Into the senate swept the mighty chief, + Like some great ocean wave across the bar + Of intercepting rock, whose jagged reef + But frets the victor whom it cannot mar. + Into the senate his triumphal car + Rushed like a conqueror's through the broken gates + Of some fallen city, whose defenders are + Powerful no longer to resist the fates, +But yield at last to him whom wondering Fame awaits. + + And as "sweet foreign Spenser" might have sung, + Yoked to the car two wing`ed steeds were seen, + With eyes of fire and flashing hoofs outflung, + As if Apollo's coursers they had been. + These were quick Thought and Eloquence, I ween, + Bounding together with impetuous speed, + While overhead there waved a flag of green, + Which seemed to urge still more each flying steed, +Until they reached the goal the hero had decreed. + + There at his feet a captive wretch lay bound, + Hideous, deformed, of baleful countenance, + Whom as his blood-shot eye-balls glared around, + As if to kill with their malignant glance, + I knew to be the fiend Intolerance. + But now no longer had he power to slay, + For Freedom touched him with Ithuriel's lance, + His horrid form revealing by its ray, +And showed how foul a fiend the world could once obey. + + Then followed after him a numerous train, + Each bearing trophies of the field he won: + Some the white wand, and some the civic chain, + Its golden letters glistening in the sun; + Some--for the reign of justice had begun-- + The ermine robes that soon would be the prize + Of spotless lives that all pollution shun, + And some in mitred pomp, with upturned eyes, +And grateful hearts invoked a blessing from the skies. + + +1843-1847. + +A glorious triumph! a deathless deed!-- + Shall the hero rest and his work half done? +Is it enough to enfranchise a creed, + When a nation's freedom may yet be won? +Is it enough to hang on the wall + The broken links of the Catholic chain, +When now one mighty struggle for ALL + May quicken the life in the land again?-- + +May quicken the life, for the land lay dead; + No central fire was a heart in its breast,-- +No throbbing veins, with the life-blood red, + Ran out like rivers to east or west: +Its soul was gone, and had left it clay-- + Dull clay to grow but the grass and the root; +But harvests for Men, ah! where were they?-- + And where was the tree for Liberty's fruit? + +Never till then, in victory's hour, + Had a conqueror felt a joy so sweet, +As when the wand of his well-won power + O'Connell laid at his country's feet. +"No! not for me, nor for mine alone," + The generous victor cried, "Have I fought, +But to see my Eire again on her throne; + Ah, that was my dream and my guiding thought. + +To see my Eire again on her throne, + Her tresses with lilies and shamrocks twined, +Her severed sons to a nation grown, + Her hostile hues in one flag combined; +Her wisest gathered in grave debate, + Her bravest armed to resist the foe: +To see my country 'glorious and great,'-- + To see her 'free,'--to fight I go!" + +And forth he went to the peaceful fight, + And the millions rose at his words of fire, +As the lightning's leap from the depth of the night, + And circle some mighty minster's spire: +Ah, ill had it fared with the hapless land, + If the power that had roused could not restrain? +If the bolts were not grasped in a glowing hand + To be hurled in peals of thunder again? + +And thus the people followed his path, + As if drawn on by a magic spell,-- +By the royal hill and the haunted rath, + By the hallowed spring and the holy well, +By all the shrines that to Erin are dear, + Round which her love like the ivy clings,-- +Still folding in leaves that never grow sere + The cell of the saint and the home of kings. + +And a soul of sweetness came into the land: + Once more was the harp of Erin strung; +Once more on the notes from some master hand + The listening land in its rapture hung. +Once more with the golden glory of words + Were the youthful orator's lips inspired, +Till he touched the heart to its tenderest chords, + And quickened the pulse which his voice had fired. + +And others divinely dowered to teach-- + High souls of honour, pure hearts of fire, +So startled the world with their rhythmic speech, + That it seemed attuned to some unseen lyre. +But the kingliest voice God ever gave man + Words sweeter still spoke than poet hath sung,-- +For a nation's wail through the numbers ran, + And the soul of the Celt exhaled on his tongue. + +And again the foe had been forced to yield; + But the hero at last waxed feeble and old, +Yet he scattered the seed in a fruitful field, + To wave in good time as a harvest of gold. +Then seeking the feet of God's High Priest, + He slept by the soft Ligurian Sea, +Leaving a light, like the Star in the East, + To lead the land that will yet be free. + + +1875. + +A hundred years their various course have run, +Since Erin's arms received her noblest son, +And years unnumbered must in turn depart +Ere Erin fails to fold him to her heart. +He is our boast, our glory, and our pride, +For us he lived, fought, suffered, dared, and died; +Struck off the shackles from each fettered limb, +And all we have of best we owe to him. +If some cathedral, exquisitely fair, +Lifts its tall turrets through the wondering air, +Though art or skill its separate offering brings, +'Tis from O'Connell's heart the structure springs. +If through this city on these festive days, +Halls, streets, and squares are bright with civic blaze +Of glittering chains, white wands, and flowing gowns, +The red-robed senates of a hundred towns, +Whatever rank each special spot may claim, +'Tis from O'Connell's hand their charters came. +If in the rising hopes of recent years +A mighty sound reverberates on our ears, +And myriad voices in one cry unite +For restoration of a ravished right, +'Tis the great echo of that thunder blast, +On Tara pealed or mightier Mullaghmast, +If arts and letters are more widely spread, +A Nile o'erflowing from its fertile bed, +Spreading the rich alluvium whence are given +Harvests for earth and amaranth flowers for heaven; +If Science still, in not unholy walls, +Sets its high chair, and dares unchartered halls, +And still ascending, ever heavenward soars, +While capped Exclusion slowly opes it doors, +It is his breath that speeds the spreading tide, +It is his hand the long-locked door throws wide. +Where'er we turn the same effect we find-- +O'Connell's voice still speaks his country's mind. +Therefore we gather to his birthday feast +Prelate and peer, the people and the priest; +Therefore we come, in one united band, +To hail in him the hero of the land, +To bless his memory, and with loud acclaim +To all the winds, on all the wings of fame +Waft to the listening world the great O'Connell's name. + + + +MOORE. +MAY 28TH, 1879. + +Joy to Ierne, joy, + This day a deathless crown is won, + Her child of song, her glorious son, +Her minstrel boy +Attains his century of fame, + Completes his time-allotted zone, +And proudly with the world's acclaim + Ascends the lyric throne. + +Yes, joy to her whose path so long, + Slow journeying to her realm of rest + O'er many a rugged mountain's crest, +He charmed with his enchanting song: +Like his own princess in the tale, + When he who had her way beguiled + Through many a bleak and desert wild +Until she reached Cashmere's bright vale +Had ceased those notes to play and sing + To which her heart responsive swelled, + She looking up, in him beheld +Her minstrel lover and her king;-- +So Erin now, her journey well-nigh o'er, +Enraptured sees her minstrel king in Moore. + +And round that throne whose light to-day + O'er all the world is cast, +In words though weak, in hues though faint, +Congenial fancy rise and paint + The spirits of the past +Who here their homage pay-- + Those who his youthful muse inspired, + Those who his early genius fired +To emulate their lay: +And as in some phantasmal glass +Let the immortal spirits pass, +Let each renew the inspiring strain, +And fire the poet's soul again. + +First there comes from classic Greece, +Beaming love and breathing peace, +With her pure, sweet smiling face, +The glory of the Aeolian race, +Beauteous Sappho, violet-crowned, +Shedding joy and rapture round: +In her hand a harp she bears, +Parent of celestial airs, +Love leaps trembling from each wire, +Every chord a string of fire:-- +How the poet's heart doth beat, +How his lips the notes repeat, +Till in rapture borne along, +The Sapphic lute, the lyrist's song, +Blend in one delicious strain, +Never to divide again. + +And beside the Aeolian queen +Great Alcaeus' form is seen: +He takes up in voice more strong +The dying cadence of the song, +And on loud resounding strings +Hurls his wrath on tyrant kings:-- +Like to incandescent coal +On the poet's kindred soul +Fall these words of living flame, +Till their songs become the same,-- +The same hate of slavery's night, +The same love of freedom's light, +Scorning aught that stops its way, +Come the black cloud whence it may, +Lift alike the inspir`ed song, +And the liquid notes prolong. + +Carolling a livelier measure +Comes the Teian bard of pleasure, +Round his brow where joy reposes +Radiant love enwreaths his roses, +Rapture in his verse is ringing, +Soft persuasion in his singing:-- +'Twas the same melodious ditty +Moved Polycrates to pity, +Made that tyrant heart surrender +Captive to a tone so tender: +To the younger bard inclining, +Round his brow the roses twining, +First the wreath in red wine steeping, +He his cithern to his keeping +Yields, its glorious fate foreseeing, +From her chains a nation freeing, +Fetters new around it flinging +In the flowers of his own singing. + +But who is this that from the misty cloud + Of immemorial years, +Wrapped in the vesture of his vaporous shroud + With solemn steps appears? +His head with oak-leaves and with ivy crowned + Lets fall its silken snow, +While the white billows of his beard unbound + Athwart his bosom flow: +Who is this venerable form +Whose hands, prelusive of the storm + Across his harp-strings play-- +That harp which, trembling in his hand, +Impatient waits its lord's command + To pour the impassioned lay? +Who is it comes with reverential hail + To greet the bard who sang his country best +'Tis Ossian--primal poet of the Gael-- + The Homer of the West. + +He sings the heroic tales of old + When Ireland yet was free, +Of many a fight and foray bold, + And raid beyond the sea. + +Of all the famous deeds of Fin, + And all the wiles of Mave, +Now thunders 'mid the battle's din, + Now sobs beside the wave. + +That wave empurpled by the sword + The hero used too well, +When great Cuchullin held the ford, + And fair Ferdiah fell. + +And now his prophet eye is cast + As o'er a boundless plain; +He sees the future as the past, + And blends them in his strain. + +The Red-Branch Knights their flags unfold + When danger's front appears, +The sunburst breaks through clouds of gold + To glorify their spears. + +But, ah! a darker hour drew nigh, + The hour of Erin's woe, +When she, though destined not to die, + Lay prostrate 'neath the foe. + +When broke were all the arms she bore, + And bravely bore in vain, +Till even her harp could sound no more + Beneath the victor's chain. + +Ah! dire constraint, ah! cruel wrong, + To fetter thus its chord, +But well they knew that Ireland's song + Was keener than her sword. + +That song would pierce where swords would fail, + And o'er the battle's din, +The sweet, sad music of the Gael + A peaceful victory win. + +Long was the trance, but sweet and low + The harp breathed out again +Its speechless wail, its wordless woe, + In Carolan's witching strain. + +Until at last the gift of words + Denied to it so long, +Poured o'er the now enfranchised chords + The articulate light of song. + +Poured the bright light from genius won, + That woke the harp's wild lays; +Even as that statue which the sun + Made vocal with his rays. + +Thus Ossian in disparted dream + Outpoured the varied lay, +But now in one united stream + His rapture finds its way:-- + +"Yes, in thy hands, illustrious son, + The harp shall speak once more, +Its sweet lament shall rippling run + From listening shore to shore. + +Till mighty lands that lie unknown + Far in the fabled west, +And giant isles of verdure thrown + Upon the South Sea's breast. + +And plains where rushing rivers flow-- + Fit emblems of the free-- +Shall learn to know of Ireland's woe, + And Ireland's weal through thee." + +'Twas thus he sang, +And while tumultuous plaudits rang + From the immortal throng, +In the younger minstrel's hand +He placed the emblem of the land-- + The harp of Irish song. + +Oh! what dulcet notes are heard. +Never bird +Soaring through the sunny air +Like a prayer +Borne by angel's hands on high +So entranced the listening sky +As his song-- +Soft, pathetic, joyous, strong, +Rising now in rapid flight +Out of sight +Like a lark in its own light, +Now descending low and sweet +To our feet, +Till the odours of the grass +With the light notes as they pass +Blend and meet: +All that Erin's memory guards +In her heart, +Deeds of heroes, songs of bards, +Have their part. + +Brian's glories reappear, +Fionualla's song we hear, +Tara's walls resound again +With a more inspir`ed strain, +Rival rivers meet and join, +Stately Shannon blends with Boyne; +While on high the storm-winds cease +Heralding the arch of peace. + +And all the bright creations fair + That 'neath his master-hand awake, +Some in tears and some in smiles, +Like Nea in the summer isles, + Or Kathleen by the lonely lake, +Round his radiant throne repair: +Nay, his own Peri of the air + Now no more disconsolate, + Gives in at Fame's celestial gate +His passport to the skies-- + The gift to heaven most dear, + His country's tear. +From every lip the glad refrain doth rise, +"Joy, ever joy, his glorious task is done, +The gates are passed and Fame's bright heaven is won!" + +Ah! yes, the work, the glorious work is done, +And Erin crowns to-day her brightest son, +Around his brow entwines the victor bay, +And lives herself immortal in his lay-- +Leads him with honour to her highest place, +For he had borne his more than mother's name +Proudly along the Olympic lists of fame +When mighty athletes struggled in the race. +Byron, the swift-souled spirit, in his pride +Paused to cheer on the rival by his side, +And Lycidas, so long +Lost in the light of his own dazzling song, +Although himself unseen, +Gave the bright wreath that might his own have been +To him whom 'mid the mountain shepherd throng, +The minstrels of the isles, +When Adonais died so fair and young, +Ierne sent from out her green defiles +"The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, +And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue." +And he who sang of Poland's kindred woes, +And Hope's delicious dream, +And all the mighty minstrels who arose +In that auroral gleam +That o'er our age a blaze of glory threw +Which Shakspere's only knew-- +Some from their hidden haunts remote, +Like him the lonely hermit of the hills, +Whose song like some great organ note +The whole horizon fills. +Or the great Master, he whose magic hand, +Wielding the wand from which such wonder flows, +Transformed the lineaments of a rugged land, +And left the thistle lovely as the rose. +Oh! in a concert of such minstrelsy, +In such a glorious company, +What pride for Ireland's harp to sound, +For Ireland's son to share, +What pride to see him glory-crowned, +And hear amid the dazzling gleam +Upon the rapt and ravished air +Her harp still sound supreme! + +Glory to Moore, eternal be the glory + That here we crown and consecrate to-day, +Glory to Moore, for he has sung our story + In strains whose sweetness ne'er can pass away. + +Glory to Moore, for he has sighed our sorrow + In such a wail of melody divine, +That even from grief a passing joy we borrow, + And linger long o'er each lamenting line. + +Glory to Moore, that in his songs of gladness + Which neither change nor time can e'er destroy, +Though mingled oft with some faint sigh of sadness, + He sings his country's rapture and its joy. + +What wit like his flings out electric flashes + That make the numbers sparkle as they run: +Wit that revives dull history's Dead-sea ashes, + And makes the ripe fruit glisten in the sun? + +What fancy full of loveliness and lightness + Has spread like his as at some dazzling feast, +The fruits and flowers, the beauty and the brightness, + And all the golden glories of the East? + +Perpetual blooms his bower of summer roses, + No winter comes to turn his green leaves sere, +Beside his song-stream where the swan reposes + The bulbul sings as by the Bendemeer. + +But back returning from his flight with Peris, + Above his native fields he sings his best, +Like to the lark whose rapture never wearies, + When poised in air he singeth o'er his nest. + +And so we rank him with the great departed, + The kings of song who rule us from their urns, +The souls inspired, the natures noble hearted, + And place him proudly by the side of Burns. + +And as not only by the Calton Mountain, + Is Scotland's bard remembered and revered, +But whereso'er, like some o'erflowing fountain, + Its hardy race a prosperous path has cleared. + +There 'mid the roar of newly-rising cities, + His glorious name is heard on every tongue, +There to the music of immortal ditties, + His lays of love, his patriot songs are sung. + +So not alone beside that bay of beauty + That guards the portals of his native town +Where like two watchful sentinels on duty, + Howth and Killiney from their heights look down. + +But wheresoe'er the exiled race hath drifted, + By what far sea, what mighty stream beside, +There shall to-day the poet's name be lifted, + And Moore proclaimed its glory and its pride: + +There shall his name be held in fond memento, + There shall his songs resound for evermore, +Whether beside the golden Sacramento, + Or where Niagara's thunder shakes the shore. + +For all that's bright indeed must fade and perish, + And all that's sweet when sweetest not endure, +Before the world shall cease to love and cherish + The wit and song, the name and fame of MOORE. + + + + +Miscellaneous Poems. + + + +THE SPIRIT OF THE SNOW. + + The night brings forth the morn-- + Of the cloud is lightning born; +From out the darkest earth the brightest roses grow. + Bright sparks from black flints fly, + And from out a leaden sky +Comes the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow. + + The wondering air grows mute, + As her pearly parachute +Cometh slowly down from heaven, softly floating to and fro; + And the earth emits no sound, + As lightly on the ground +Leaps the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow. + + At the contact of her tread, + The mountain's festal head, +As with chaplets of white roses, seems to glow; + And its furrowed cheek grows white + With a feeling of delight, +At the presence of the Spirit of the Snow. + + As she wendeth to the vale, + The longing fields grow pale-- +The tiny streams that vein them cease to flow; + And the river stays its tide + With wonder and with pride, +To gaze upon the Spirit of the Snow. + + But little doth she deem + The love of field or stream-- +She is frolicsome and lightsome as the roe; + She is here and she is there, + On the earth or in the air, +Ever changing, floats the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now a daring climber, she + Mounts the tallest forest tree-- +Out along the giddy branches doth she go; + And her tassels, silver-white, + Down swinging through the night, +Mark the pillow of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now she climbs the mighty mast, + When the sailor boy at last +Dreams of home in his hammock down below + There she watches in his stead + Till the morning sun shines red, +Then evanishes the Spirit of the Snow. + + Or crowning with white fire. + The minster's topmost spire +With a glory such as sainted foreheads show; + She teaches fanes are given + Thus to lift the heart to heaven, +There to melt like the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now above the loaded wain, + Now beneath the thundering train, +Doth she hear the sweet bells tinkle and the snorting engine blow; + Now she flutters on the breeze, + Till the branches of the trees +Catch the tossed and tangled tresses of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now an infant's balmy breath + Gives the spirit seeming death, +When adown her pallid features fair Decay's damp dew-drops flow; + Now again her strong assault + Can make an army halt, +And trench itself in terror 'gainst the Spirit of the Snow. + + At times with gentle power, + In visiting some bower, +She scarce will hide the holly's red, the blackness of the sloe; + But, ah! her awful might, + When down some Alpine height +The hapless hamlet sinks before the Spirit of the Snow. + + On a feather she floats down + The turbid rivers brown, +Down to meet the drifting navies of the winter-freighted floe; + Then swift o'er the azure walls + Of the awful waterfalls, +Where Niagara leaps roaring, glides the Spirit of the Snow. + + With her flag of truce unfurled, + She makes peace o'er all the world-- +Makes bloody battle cease awhile, and war's unpitying woe; + Till, its hollow womb within, + The deep dark-mouthed culverin +Encloses, like a cradled child, the Spirit of the Snow. + + She uses in her need + The fleetly-flying steed-- +Now tries the rapid reindeer's strength, and now the camel slow; + Or, ere defiled by earth, + Unto her place of birth, +Returns upon the eagle's wing the Spirit of the Snow. + + Oft with pallid figure bowed, + Like the Banshee in her shroud, +Doth the moon her spectral shadow o'er some silent gravestone throw; + Then moans the fitful wail, + And the wanderer grows pale, +Till at morning fades the phantom of the Spirit of the Snow. + + In her ermine cloak of state + She sitteth at the gate +Of some winter-prisoned princess in her palace by the Po; + Who dares not to come forth + Till back unto the North +Flies the beautiful besieger--the Spirit of the Snow. + + In her spotless linen hood, + Like the other sisterhood, +She braves the open cloister when the psalm sounds sweet and low; + When some sister's bier doth pass + From the minster and the Mass, +Soon to sink into the earth, like the Spirit of the Snow. + + But at times so full of joy, + She will play with girl and boy, +Fly from out their tingling fingers, like white fireballs on the foe; + She will burst in feathery flakes, + And the ruin that she makes +Will but wake the crackling laughter of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Or in furry mantle drest, + She will fondle on her breast +The embryo buds awaiting the near Spring's mysterious throe; + So fondly that the first + Of the blossoms that outburst +Will be called the beauteous daughter of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Ah! would that we were sure + Of hearts so warmly pure, +In all the winter weather that this lesser life must know; + That when shines the Sun of Love + From the warmer realm above, +In its light we may dissolve, like the Spirit of the Snow. + + + +TO THE BAY OF DUBLIN. + +My native Bay, for many a year +I've lov'd thee with a trembling fear, +Lest thou, though dear and very dear, + And beauteous as a vision, +Shouldst have some rival far away, +Some matchless wonder of a bay, +Whose sparkling waters ever play + 'Neath azure skies elysian. + +'Tis Love, methought, blind Love that pours +The rippling magic round these shores, +For whatsoever Love adores + Becomes what Love desireth: +'Tis ignorance of aught beside +That throws enchantment o'er the tide, +And makes my heart respond with pride + To what mine eye admireth, + +And thus, unto our mutual loss, +Whene'er I paced the sloping moss +Of green Killiney, or across + The intervening waters, +Up Howth's brown sides my feet would wend, +To see thy sinuous bosom bend, +Or view thine outstretch'd arms extend + To clasp thine islet daughters; + +Then would this spectre of my fear +Beside me stand--How calm and clear +Slept underneath, the green waves, near + The tide-worn rocks' recesses; +Or when they woke, and leapt from land, +Like startled sea-nymphs, hand-in-hand, +Seeking the southern silver strand + With floating emerald tresses: + +It lay o'er all, a moral mist, +Even on the hills, when evening kissed +The granite peaks to amethyst, + I felt its fatal shadow: +It darkened o'er the brightest rills, +It lowered upon the sunniest hills, +And hid the wing`ed song that fills + The moorland and the meadow. + +But now that I have been to view +All even Nature's self can do, +And from Gaeta's arch of blue + Borne many a fond memento; +And from each fair and famous scene, +Where Beauty is, and Power hath been, +Along the golden shores between + Misenum and Sorrento: + +I can look proudly in thy face, +Fair daughter of a hardier race, +And feel thy winning well-known grace, + Without my old misgiving; +And as I kneel upon thy strand, +And kiss thy once unvalued hand, +Proclaim earth holds no lovelier land, + Where life is worth the living. + + + +TO ETHNA. + + First loved, last loved, best loved of all I've loved! + Ethna, my boyhood's dream, my manhood's light, + Pure angel spirit, in whose light I've moved, + Full many a year, along life's darksome night! + Thou wert my star, serenely shining bright + Beyond youth's passing clouds and mists obscure + Thou wert the power that kept my spirit white, + My soul unsoiled, my heart untouched and pure. +Thine was the light from heaven that ever must endure. + + Purest, and best, and brightest, no mishap, + No chance, or change can break our mutual ties; + My heart lies spread before thee like a map, + Here roll the tides, and there the mountains rise; + Here dangers frown and there hope's streamlet flies, + And golden promontories cleave the main: + And I have looked into thy lustrous eyes, + And saw the thought thou couldst not all restrain, +A sweet, soft, sympathetic pity for my pain! + + Dearest, and best, I dedicate to thee, + From this hour forth, my hopes, my dreams, my cares, + All that I am, and all I e'er may be, + Youth's clustering locks, and age's thin white hairs; + Thou by my side, fair vision, unawares-- + Sweet saint--shalt guard me as with angel's wings; + To thee shall rise the morning's hopeful prayers, + The evening hymns, the thoughts that midnight brings, +The worship that like fire out of the warm heart springs. + + Thou wilt be with me through the struggling day, + Thou wilt be with me through the pensive night, + Thou wilt be with me, though far, far away + Some sad mischance may snatch you from my sight, + In grief, in pain, in gladness, in delight, + In every thought thy form shall bear a part, + In every dream thy memory shall unite, + Bride of my soul! and partner of my heart! +Till from the dreadful bow flieth the fatal dart! + + Am I deceived? and do I pine and faint + For worth that only dwells in heaven above, + And if thou'rt not the Ethna that I paint, + Then thou art not the Ethna that I love; + If thou art not as gentle as the dove, + And good as thou art beautiful, the tooth + Of venomed serpent will not deadlier prove + Than that dark revelation; but in sooth, +Ethna, I wrong thee, dearest, for thy name is TRUTH. + + + +"NOT KNOWN." + +On receiving through the Post-Office a Returned Letter from an old +residence, marked on the envelope, "Not Known." + +A beauteous summer-home had I + As e'er a bard set eyes on-- +A glorious sweep of sea and sky, + Near hills and far horizon. +Like Naples was the lovely bay, + The lovely hill like Rio-- +And there I lived for many a day + In Campo de Estio. + +It seemed as if the magic scene + No human skill had planted; +The trees remained for ever green, + As if they were enchanted: +And so I said to Sweetest-eyes, + My dear, I think that we owe +To fairy hands this paradise + Of Campo de Estio. + +How swiftly flew the hours away! + I read and rhymed and revelled; +In interchange of work and play, + I built, and drained, and levelled; +"The Pope," so "happy," days gone by + (Unlike our ninth Pope Pio), +Was far less happy then than I + In Campo de Estio. + +For children grew in that sweet place, + As in the grape wine gathers-- +Their mother's eyes in each bright face, + In each light heart, their father's: +Their father, who by some was thought + A literary 'leo,' +Ne'er dreamed he'd be so soon forgot + In Campo de Estio. + +But so it was:--Of hope bereft, + A year had scarce gone over, +Since he that sweetest place had left, + And gone--we'll say--to Dover, +When letters came where he had flown. + Returned him from the "P. O.," +On which was writ, O Heavens! "NOT KNOWN + IN CAMPO DE ESTIO!" + +"Not known" where he had lived so long, + A "cintra" home created, +Where scarce a shrub that now is strong + But had its place debated; +Where scarce a flower that now is shown, + But shows his care: O Dio! +And now to be described, "Not known + In Campo de Estio." + +That pillar from the Causeway brought-- + This fern from Connemara-- +That pine so long and widely sought-- + This Cedrus deodara-- +That bust (if Shakespeare's doth survive, + And busts had brains and 'brio'), +Might keep his name at least alive + In Campo de Estio. + +When Homer went from place to place, + The glorious siege reciting +(Of course I presuppose the case + Of reading and of writing), +I've little doubt the Bard divine + His letters got from Scio, +Inscribed "Not known," Ah! me, like mine + From Campo de Estio. + +The poet, howsoe'er inspired, + Must brave neglect and danger; +When Philip Massinger expired, + The death-list said "a stranger!" +A stranger! yes, on earth, but let + The poet sing 'laus Deo'!-- +Heaven's glorious summer waits him yet-- + God's "Campo de Estio." + + + +THE LAY MISSIONER. + + Had I a wish--'twere this, that heaven would make + My heart as strong to imitate as love, + That half its weakness it could leave, and take + Some spirit's strength, by which to soar above, + A lordly eagle mated with a dove. + Strong-will and warm affection, these be mine; + Without the one no dreams has fancy wove, + Without the other soon these dreams decline, +Weak children of the heart, which fade away and pine! + + Strong have I been in love, if not in will; + Affections crowd and people all the past, + And now, even now, they come and haunt me still, + Even from the graves where once my hopes were cast. + But not with spectral features--all aghast-- + Come they to fright me; no, with smiles and tears, + And winding arms, and breasts that beat as fast + As once they beat in boyhood's opening years, +Come the departed shades, whose steps my rapt soul hears. + + Youth has passed by, its first warm flush is o'er, + And now, 'tis nearly noon; yet unsubdued + My heart still kneels and worships, as of yore, + Those twin-fair shapes, the Beautiful and Good! + Valley and mountain, sky and stream, and wood, + And that fair miracle, the human face, + And human nature in its sunniest mood, + Freed from the shade of all things low and base,-- +These in my heart still hold their old accustom'd place. + + 'Tis not with pride, but gratitude, I tell + How beats my heart with all its youthful glow, + How one kind act doth make my bosom swell, + And down my cheeks the sweet, warm, glad tears flow. + Enough of self, enough of me you know, + Kind reader, but if thou wouldst further wend, + With me, this wilderness of weak words thro', + Let me depict, before the journey end, +One whom methinks thou'lt love, my brother and my friend. + + Ah! wondrous is the lot of him who stands + A Christian Priest, with a Christian fane, + And binds with pure and consecrated hands, + Round earth and heaven, a festal, flower chain; + Even as between the blue arch and the main, + A circling western ring of golden light + Weds the two worlds, or as the sunny rain + Of April makes the cloud and clay unite, +Thus links the Priest of God the dark world and the bright. + + All are not priests, yet priestly duties may + And should be all men's: as a common sight + We view the brightness of a summer's day, + And think 'tis but its duty to be bright; + But should a genial beam of warming light + Suddenly break from out a wintry sky, + With gratitude we own a new delight, + Quick beats the heart and brighter beams the eye, +And as a boon we hail the splendour from on high. + + 'Tis so with men, with those of them at least + Whose hearts by icy doubts are chill'd and torn; + They think the virtues of a Christian Priest + Something professional, put on and worn + Even as the vestments of a Sabbath morn: + But should a friend or act or teach as he, + Then is the mind of all its doubting shorn, + The unexpected goodness that they see +Takes root, and bears its fruit, as uncoerced and free! + + One I have known, and haply yet I know, + A youth by baser passions undefiled, + Lit by the light of genius and the glow + Which real feeling leaves where once it smiled; + Firm as a man, yet tender as a child; + Armed at all points by fantasy and thought, + To face the true or soar amid the wild; + By love and labour, as a good man ought, +Ready to pay the price by which dear truth is bought! + + 'Tis not with cold advice or stern rebuke, + With formal precept, or wit face demure, + But with the unconscious eloquence of look, + Where shines the heart so loving and so pure: + 'Tis these, with constant goodness, that allure + All hearts to love and imitate his worth. + Beside him weaker natures feel secure, + Even as the flower beside the oak peeps forth, +Safe, though the rain descends, and blows the biting North! + + Such is my friend, and such I fain would be, + Mild, thoughtful, modest, faithful, loving, gay, + Correct, not cold, nor uncontroll'd though free, + But proof to all the lures that round us play, + Even as the sun, that on his azure way + Moveth with steady pace and lofty mien, + Though blushing clouds, like syrens, woo his stay, + Higher and higher through the pure serene, +Till comes the calm of eve and wraps him from the scene. + + + +THE SPIRIT OF THE IDEAL. + +Sweet sister spirits, ye whose starlight tresses + Stream on the night-winds as ye float along, +Missioned with hope to man--and with caresses + +To slumbering babes--refreshment to the strong-- + And grace the sensuous soul that it's arrayed in: +As the light burden of melodious song + +Weighs down a poet's words;--as an o'erladen + Lily doth bend beneath its own pure snow; +Or with its joy, the free heart of a maiden:-- + +Thus, I behold your outstretched pinions grow + Heavy with all the priceless gifts and graces +God through thy ministration doth bestow. + +Do ye not plant the rose on youthful faces? + And rob the heavens of stars for Beauty's eyes? +Do ye not fold within love's pure embraces + +All that Omnipotence doth yet devise + For human bliss, or rapture superhuman-- +Heaven upon earth, and earth still in the skies? + +Do ye not sow the fruitful heart of woman + With tenderest charities and faith sincere, +To feed man's sterile soul and to illumine + +His duller eyes, that else might settle here, + With the bright promise of a purer region-- +A starlight beacon to a starry sphere? + +Are they not all thy children, that bright legion-- + Of aspirations, and all hopeful sighs +That in the solemn train of grave Religion + +Strew heavenly flowers before man's longing eyes, + And make him feel, as o'er life's sea he wendeth, +The far-off odorous airs of Paradise?-- + +Like to the breeze some flowery island sendeth + Unto the seaman, ere its bowers are seen, +Which tells him soon his weary wandering endeth-- + +Soon shall he rest, in bosky shades of green, + By daisied meadows prankt with dewy flowers, +With ever-running rivulets between. + +These are thy tasks, my sisters--these the powers + God in his goodness gives into thy hands:-- +'Tis from thy fingers fall the diamond showers + +Of budding Spring, and o'er the expectant lands + June's odorous purple and rich Autumn's gold: +And even when needful Winter wide expands + +His fallow wings, and winds blow sharp and cold + From the harsh east, 'tis thine, o'er all the plain, +The leafless woodlands and the unsheltered wold, + +Gently to drop the flakes of feathery rain-- + Heaven's warmest down--around the slumbering seeds, +And o'er the roots the frost-blanched counterpane. + +What though man's careless eye but little heeds + Even the effects, much less the remoter cause, +Still, in the doing of beneficent deeds-- + +By God and his Vicegerent Nature's laws-- + Ever a compensating joy is found. +Think ye the rain-drop heedeth if it draws + +Rankness as well as Beauty from the ground? + Or that the sullen wind will deign to wake +Only Aeolian melodies of sound-- + +And not the stormy screams that make men quake + Thus do ye act, my sisters; thus ye do +Your cheerful duty for the doing's sake-- + +Not unrewarded surely--not when you + See the successful issue of your charms, +Bringing the absent back again to view-- + +Giving the loved one to the lover's arms-- + Smoothing the grassy couch in weary age-- +Hushing in death's great calm a world's alarms. + +I, I alone upon the earth's vast stage + Am doomed to act an unrequited part-- +I, the unseen preceptress of the sage-- + +I, whose ideal form doth win the heart + Of all whom God's vocation hath assigned +To wear the sacred vesture of high Art-- + +To pass along the electric sparks of mind + From age to age, from race to race, until +The expanding truth encircles all mankind. + +What without me were all the poet's skill?-- + Dead, sensuous form without the quickening soul. +What without me the instinctive aim of will?-- + +A useless magnet pointing to no pole. + What the fine ear and the creative hand? +Most potent spirits free from man's control. + +I, THE IDEAL, by the poet stand + When all his soul o'erflows with holy fire, +When currents of the beautiful and grand + +Run glittering down along each burning wire + Until the heart of the great world doth feel +The electric shock of his God-kindled lyre:-- + +Then rolls the thunderous music peal on peal, + Or in the breathless after-pause, a strain +Simpler and sweeter through the hush doth steal-- + +Like to the pattering drops of summer rain + Or rustling grass, when fragrance fills the air +And all the groves are vocal once again: + +Whatever form, whatever shape I bear, + The Spirit of high Impulse, and the Soul +Of all conceptions beautiful and rare, + +Am I; who now swift spurning all control, + On rapid wings--the Ariel of the Muse-- +Dart from the dazzling centre to the pole; + +Now in the magic mimicry of hues + Such as surround God's golden throne, descend +In Titian's skies the boundaries to confuse + +Betwixt earth's heaven and heaven's own heaven to blend + In Raphael's forms the human and divine, +Where spirit dawns, and matter seems to end. + +Again on wings of melody, so fine + They mock the sight, but fall upon the ear +Like tuneful rose-leaves at the day's decline-- + +And with the music of a happier sphere + Entrance some master of melodious sound, +Till startled men the hymns of angels hear. + +Happy for me when, in the vacant round + Of barren ages, one great steadfast soul +Faithful to me and to his art is found. + +But, ah! my sisters, with my grief condole; + Join in my sorrows and respond my sighs; +And let your sobs the funeral dirges toll; + +Weep those who falter in the great emprise-- + Who, turning off upon some poor pretence, +Some worthless guerdon or some paltry prize, + +Down from the airy zenith through the immense + Sink to the low expedients of an hour, +And barter soul for all the slough of sense,-- + +Just when the mind had reached its regal power, + And fancy's wing its perfect plume unfurl'd,-- +Just when the bud of promise in the flower + +Of all completeness opened on the world-- + When the pure fire that heaven itself outflung +Back to its native empyrean curled, + +Like vocal incense from a censer swung:-- + Ah, me! to be subdued when all seemed won-- +That I should fly when I would fain have clung. + +Yet so it is,--our radiant course is run;-- + Here we must part, the deathless lay unsung, +And, more than all, the deathless deed undone. + + + +RECOLLECTIONS. + +Ah! summer time, sweet summer scene, + When all the golden days, + Linked hand-in-hand, like moonlit fays, +Danced o'er the deepening green. + +When, from the top of Pelier[111] down + We saw the sun descend, + With smiles that blessings seemed to send +To our near native town. + +And when we saw him rise again + High o'er the hills at morn-- + God's glorious prophet daily born +To preach good will to men-- + +Good-will and peace to all between + The gates of night and day-- + Join with me, love, and with me say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +Sweet summer time, true age of gold, + When hand-in-hand we went + Slow by the quickening shrubs, intent +To see the buds unfold: + +To trace new wild flowers in the grass, + New blossoms on the bough, + And see the water-lilies now +Rise o'er the liquid glass. + +When from the fond and folding gale + The scented briar I pulled, + Or for thy kindred bosom culled +The lily of the vale;-- + +Thou without whom were dark the green, + The golden turned to gray, + Join with me, love, and with me say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +Sweet summer time, delight's brief reign, + Thou hast one memory still, + Dearer than ever tree or hill +Yet stretched along life's plain. + +Stranger than all the wond'rous whole, + Flowers, fields, and sunset skies-- + To see within our infant's eyes +The awakening of the soul. + +To see their dear bright depths first stirred + By the far breath of thought, + To feel our trembling hearts o'erfraught +With rapture when we heard + +Her first clear laugh, which might have been + A cherub's laugh at play-- + Ah! love, thou canst but join and say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +Sweet summer time, sweet summer days, + One day I must recall; + One day the brightest of them all, +Must mark with special praise. + +'Twas when at length in genial showers + The spring attained its close; + And June with many a myriad rose +Incarnadined the bowers: + +Led by the bright and sun-warm air, + We left our indoor nooks; + Thou with my paper and my books, +And I thy garden chair; + +Crossed the broad, level garden-walks, + With countless roses lined; + And where the apple still inclined +Its blossoms o'er the box, + +Near to the lilacs round the pond, + In its stone ring hard by + We took our seats, where save the sky, +And the few forest trees beyond + +The garden wall, we nothing saw, + But flowers and blossoms, and we heard + Nought but the whirring of some bird, +Or the rooks' distant, clamorous caw. + +And in the shade we saw the face + Of our dear infant sleeping near, + And thou wert by to smile and hear, +And speak with innate truth and grace. + +There through the pleasant noontide hours + My task of echoed song I sung; + Turning the golden southern tongue +Into the iron ore of ours! + +'Twas the great Spanish master's pride, + The story of the hero proved; + 'Twas how the Moorish princess loved, +And how the firm Fernando died.[112] + +O happiest season ever seen, + O day, indeed the happiest day; + Join with me, love, and with me say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +One picture more before I close + Fond Memory's fast dissolving views; + One picture more before I lose +The radiant outlines as they rose. + +'Tis evening, and we leave the porch, + And for the hundredth time admire + The rhododendron's cones of fire +Rise round the tree, like torch o'er torch. + +And for the hundredth time point out + Each favourite blossom and perfume-- + If the white lilac still doth bloom, +Or the pink hawthorn fadeth out: + +And by the laurell'd wall, and o'er + The fields of young green corn we've gone; + And by the outer gate, and on +To our dear friend's oft-trodden door. + +And there in cheerful talk we stay, + Till deepening twilight warns us home; + Then once again we backward roam +Calmly and slow the well-known way-- + +And linger for the expected view-- + Day's dying gleam upon the hill; + Or listen for the whip-poor-will,[113] +Or the too seldom shy cuckoo. + +At home the historic page we glean, + And muse, and hope, and praise, and pray-- + Join with me, love, as then, and say-- +Sweet summer time and scene! + + +111. Mount Pelier, in the county of Dublin, overlooking Rathfarnham, +and more remotely Dundrum. To a brief residence near the latter village +the "Recollections" rendered in this poem are to be referred. + +112. Calderon's "El Principe Constante," translated in the earlier +volumes of the author's Calderon. London, 1853. + +113. I do not know the bird to which I have given this Indian name. +It, however, imitated its note quite distinctly. + + + +DOLORES. + +The moon of my soul is dark, Dolores, + Dead and dark in my breast it lies, +For I miss the heaven of thy smile, Dolores, + And the light of thy brown bright eyes. + +The rose of my heart is gone, Dolores, + Bud or blossom in vain I seek; +For I miss the breath of thy lip, Dolores, + And the blush of thy pearl-pale cheek. + +The pulse of my heart is still, Dolores, + Still and chill is its glowing tide; +For I miss the beating of thine, Dolores, + In the vacant space by my side. + +But the moon shall revisit my soul, Dolores, + And the rose shall refresh my heart, +When I meet thee again in heaven, Dolores, + Never again to part. + + + +LOST AND FOUND. + +"Whither art thou gone, fair Una? + Una fair, the moon is gleaming; +Fear no mortal eye, fair Una, + For the very flowers are dreaming. +And the twinkling stars are closing + Up their weary watching glances, +Warders on heaven's walls reposing, + While the glittering foe advances. + +"Una dear, my heart is throbbing, + Full of throbbings without number; +Come! the tired-out streams are sobbing + Like to children ere they slumber; +And the longing trees inclining, + Seek the earth's too distant bosom; +Sad fate! that keeps from intertwining + The earthly and the aerial blossom. + +"Una dear, I've roamed the mountain, + Round the furze and o'er the heather; +Una, dear, I've sought the fountain + Where we rested oft together; +Ah! the mountain now looks dreary, + Dead and dark where no life liveth; +Ah! the fountain, to the weary, + Now, no more refreshment giveth. + +"Una, darling, dearest daughter + Beauty ever gave to Fancy, +Spirit of the silver water, + Nymph of Nature's necromancy! +Fair enchantress, fond magician, + Is thine every spell-word spoken? +Hast thou closed thy fairy mission? + Is thy potent wand then broken? + +"Una dearest, deign to hear me, + Fly no more my prayer resisting!" +Then a trembling voice came near me, + Like a maiden to the trysting, +Like a maiden's feet approaching + Where the lover doth attend her; +Half-forgiving, half-reproaching, + Came that voice so shy and tender. + +"Must I blame thee, must I chide thee, + Change to scorn the love I bore thee? +And the fondest heart beside thee, + And the truest eyes before thee. +And the kindest hands to press thee, + And the instinctive sense to guide thee, +And the purest lips to bless thee, + What, O dreamer! is denied thee? + +"Hast thou not the full fruition, + Hast thou not the full enjoyance +Of thy young heart's fond ambition, + Free from every feared annoyance +Thou hast sighed for truth and beauty, + Hast thou failed, then, in thy wooing? +Dreamed of some ideal duty, + Is there nought that waits thy doing?-- + +"Is the world less bright or beauteous, + That dear eyes behold it with thee? +Is the work of life less duteous, + That thou art helped to do it, prithee? +Is the near rapture non-existent, + Because thou dreamest an ideal? +And canst thou for a glimmering distant + Forget the blessings of the real? + +"Down on thy knees, O doubting dreamer! + Down! and repent thy heart's misprision." +Scarce had I knelt in tears and tremor, + When the scales fell from off my vision. +There stood my human guardian angel, + Given me by God's benign foreseeing, +While from her lips came life's evangel, + "Live! that each day complete thy being!" + + + +SPRING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND. + +On receiving an early crocus and some violets in a letter from Ireland. + +Within the letter's rustling fold + I find once more a glad surprise-- +A little tiny cup of gold-- + Two little lovely violet eyes; +A cup of gold with emeralds set, + Once filled with wine from happier spheres; +Two little eyes so lately wet + With spring's delicious dewy tears. + +Oh! little eyes that wept and laughed, + Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim, +Oh! little cup that once was quaffed + By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim. +I press each silken fringe's fold, + Sweet little eyes once more ye shine; +I kiss thy lip, oh, cup of gold, + And find thee full of Memory's wine. + +Within their violet depths I gaze, + And see as in the camera's gloom, +The island with its belt of bays, + Its chieftained heights all capped with broom, +Which as the living lens it fills, + Now seems a giant charmed to sleep-- +Now a broad shield embossed with hills + Upon the bosom of the deep. + +When will the slumbering giant wake? + When will the shield defend and guard? +Ah, me! prophetic gleams forsake + The once rapt eyes of seer or bard. +Enough, if shunning Samson's fate, + It doth not all its vigour yield; +Enough, if plenteous peace, though late, + May rest beneath the sheltering shield. + +I see the long and lone defiles + Of Keimaneigh's bold rocks uphurled, +I see the golden fruited isles + That gem the queen-lakes of the world; +I see--a gladder sight to me-- + By soft Shanganah's silver strand, +The breaking of a sapphire sea + Upon the golden-fretted sand. + +Swiftly the tunnel's rock-hewn pass, + Swiftly the fiery train runs through; +Oh! what a glittering sheet of glass! + Oh! what enchantment meets my view! +With eyes insatiate I pursue, + Till Bray's bright headland bounds the scene. +'Tis Baiae, by a softer blue! + Gaeta, by a gladder green! + +By tasseled groves, o'er meadows fair, + I'm carried in my blissful dream, +To where--a monarch in the air-- + The pointed mountain reigns supreme; +There in a spot remote and wild, + I see once more the rustic seat, +Where Carrigoona, like a child, + Sits at the mightier mountain's feet. + +There by the gentler mountain's slope, + That happiest year of many a year, +That first swift year of love and hope, + With her then dear and ever dear, +I sat upon the rustic seat, + The seat an aged bay-tree crowns, +And saw outspreading from our feet + The golden glory of the Downs. + +The furze-crowned heights, the glorious glen, + The white-walled chapel glistening near, +The house of God, the homes of men, + The fragrant hay, the ripening ear; +There where there seemed nor sin nor crime, + There in God's sweet and wholesome air-- +Strange book to read at such a time-- + We read of Vanity's false Fair. + +We read the painful pages through, + Perceived the skill, admired the art, +Felt them if true, not wholly true, + A truer truth was in our heart. +Save fear and love of One, hath proved + The sage how vain is all below; +And one was there who feared and loved, + And one who loved that she was so. + +The vision spreads, the memories grow, + Fair phantoms crowd the more I gaze, +Oh! cup of gold, with wine o'erflow, + I'll drink to those departed days: +And when I drain the golden cup + To them, to those I ne'er can see, +With wine of hope I'll fill it up, + And drink to days that yet may be. + +I've drunk the future and the past, + Now for a draught of warmer wine-- +One draught, the sweetest and the last, + Lady, I'll drink to thee and thine. +These flowers that to my breast I fold, + Into my very heart have grown; +To thee I'll drain the cup of gold, + And think the violet eyes thine own. + +Boulogne, March, 1865. + + + +TO THE MEMORY OF FATHER PROUT. + +In deep dejection, but with affection, + I often think of those pleasant times, +In the days of Fraser, ere I touched a razor, + How I read and revell'd in thy racy rhymes; +When in wine and wassail, we to thee were vassal, + Of Watergrass-hill, O renowned P.P.! + May the bells of Shandon + Toll blithe and bland on + The pleasant waters of thy memory! + +Full many a ditty, both wise and witty, + In this social city have I heard since then +(With the glass before me, how the dream comes o'er me, + Of those Attic suppers, and those vanished men). +But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken, + Or hath left a token of such joy in me + As "The Bells of Shandon + That sound so grand on + The pleasant waters of the river Lee." + +The songs melodious, which--a new Harmodius-- + "Young Ireland" wreathed round its rebel sword, +With their deep vibrations and aspirations, + Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive board! +But to me seems sweeter, with a tone completer, + The melodious metre that we owe to thee-- + Of the bells of Shandon + That sound so grand on + The pleasant waters of the river Lee. + +There's a grave that rises o'er thy sward, Devizes, + Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar, +And a white stone flashes over Goldsmith's ashes + In quiet cloisters by Temple Bar; +So where'er thou sleepest, with a love that's deepest, + Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee, + While the Bells of Shandon + Shall sound so grand on + The pleasant waters of the river Lee. + + + +THOSE SHANDON BELLS. + +[The remains of the Rev. Francis Mahony were laid in the family +burial-place in St. Anne Shandon Churchyard, the "Bells," which he has +rendered famous, tolling the knell of the poet, who sang of their sweet +chimes.] + +Those Shandon bells, those Shandon bells! +Whose deep, sad tone now sobs, now swells-- +Who comes to seek this hallowed ground, +And sleep within their sacred sound? + +'Tis one who heard these chimes when young, +And who in age their praises sung, +Within whose breast their music made +A dream of home where'er he strayed. + +And, oh! if bells have power to-day +To drive all evil things away, +Let doubt be dumb, and envy cease-- +And round his grave reign holy peace. + +True love doth love in turn beget, +And now these bells repay the debt; +Whene'er they sound, their music tells +Of him who sang sweet Shandon bells! + +May 30, 1866. + + + +YOUTH AND AGE. + +To give the blossom and the fruit + The soft warm air that wraps them round, +Oh! think how long the toilsome root + Must live and labour 'neath the ground. + +To send the river on its way, + With ever deepening strength and force, +Oh! think how long 'twas let to play, + A happy streamlet, near its source. + + + +TO JUNE. +WRITTEN AFTER AN UNGENIAL MAY. + +I'll heed no more the poet's lay-- + His false-fond song shall charm no more-- + My heart henceforth shall but adore +The real, not the misnamed May. + +Too long I've knelt, and vainly hung + My offerings round an empty name; + O May! thou canst not be the same +As once thou wert when Earth was young. + +Thou canst not be the same to-day-- + The poet's dream--the lover's joy:-- + The floral heaven of girl and boy +Were heaven no more, if thou wert May. + +If thou wert May, then May is cold, + And, oh! how changed from what she has been-- + Then barren boughs are bright with green, +And leaden skies are glad with gold. + +And the dark clouds that veiled thy moon + Were silvery-threaded tissues bright, + Looping the locks of amber light +That float but on the airs of June. + +O June! thou art the real May; + Thy name is soft and sweet as hers + But rich blood thy bosom stirs, +Her marble cheek cannot display. + +She cometh like a haughty girl, + So conscious of her beauty's power, + She now will wear nor gem nor flower +Upon her pallid breast of pearl. + +And her green silken summer dress, + So simply flower'd in white and gold, + She scorns to let our eyes behold, +But hides through very wilfulness: + +Hides it 'neath ermined robes, which she + Hath borrowed from some wintry quean, + Instead of dancing on the green-- +A village maiden fair and free. + +Oh! we have spoiled her with our praise, + And made her froward, false, and vain; + So that her cold blue eyes disdain +To smile as in the earlier days. + +Let her beware--the world full soon + Like me shall tearless turn away, + And woo, instead of thine, O May! +The brown, bright, joyous eyes of June. + +O June! forgive the long delay, + My heart's deceptive dream is o'er-- + Where I believe I will adore, +Nor worship June, yet kneel to May. + + + +SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER. + +Summer is a glorious season + Warm, and bright, and pleasant; +But the Past is not a reason + To despise the Present. +So while health can climb the mountain, + And the log lights up the hall, +There are sunny days in Winter, after all! + +Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us, + Maiden-like in charms; +Summer, too, with all her promise, + Perished in our arms. +But the memory of the vanished, + Whom our hearts recall, +Maketh sunny days in Winter, after all! + +True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh, + All the best are dead; +But the wall-flower still perfumeth + Yonder garden-bed. +And the arbutus pearl-blossom'd + Hangs its coral ball-- +There are sunny days in Winter, after all! + +Summer trees are pretty,--very, + And love them well: +But this holly's glistening berry, + None of those excel. +While the fir can warm the landscape, + And the ivy clothes the wall, +There are sunny days in Winter, after all! + +Sunny hours in every season + Wait the innocent-- +Those who taste with love and reason + What their God hath sent. +Those who neither soar too highly, + Nor too lowly fall, +Feel the sunny days of Winter, after all! + +Then, although our darling treasures + Vanish from the heart; +Then, although our once-loved pleasures + One by one depart; +Though the tomb looms in the distance, + And the mourning pall, +There is sunshine, and no Winter, after all! + + + +THE BIRTH OF THE SPRING. + +O Kathleen, my darling, I've dreamt such a dream, +'Tis as hopeful and bright as the summer's first beam: +I dreamt that the World, like yourself, darling dear, +Had presented a son to the happy New Year! +Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered awhile, +But like yours was the joy, at her baby's first smile, +When the tender nurse, Nature, quick hastened to fling +Her sun-mantle round, as she fondled THE SPRING. + +O Kathleen, 'twas strange how the elements all, +With their friendly regards, condescended to call: +The rough rains of winter like summer-dews fell, +And the North-wind said, zephyr-like: "Is the World well?" +And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell o'er the earth +God's goodness to man in this mystical birth; +For a Son of this World, and an heir to the King +Who rules over man, is this beautiful Spring! + +O Kathleen, methought, when the bright babe was born, +More lovely than morning appeared the bright morn; +The birds sang more sweetly, the grass greener grew, +And with buds and with blossoms the old trees looked new; +And methought when the Priest of the Universe came-- +The Sun--in his vestments of glory and flame, +He was seen, the warm raindrops of April to fling +On the brow of the babe, and baptise him The Spring! + +O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! what treasures are piled +In the mines of the past for this wonderful Child! +The lore of the sages, the lays of the bards, +Like a primer, the eye of this infant regards; +All the dearly-bought knowledge that cost life and limb, +Without price, without peril, is offered to him; +And the blithe bee of Progress concealeth its sting, +As it offers its sweets to the beautiful Spring! + +O Kathleen, they tell us of wonderful things, +Of speed that surpasseth the fairy's fleet wings; +How the lands of the world in communion are brought, +And the slow march of speech is as rapid as thought. +Think, think what an heir-loom the great world will be +With this wonderful wire 'neath the earth and the sea; +When the snows and the sunshine together shall bring +All the wealth of the world to the feet of The Spring. + +Oh! Kathleen, but think of the birth-gifts of love, +That THE MASTER who lives in the GREAT HOUSE above +Prepares for the poor child that's born on His land-- +Dear God! they're the sweet flowers that fall from Thy hand-- +The crocus, the primrose, the violet given +Awhile, to make earth the reflection of heaven; +The brightness and lightness that round the world wing +Are thine, and are ours too, through thee, happy Spring! + +O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! that dream is gone by, +And I wake once again, but, thank God! thou art by; +And the land that we love looks as bright in the beam, +Just as if my sweet dream was not all out a dream, +The spring-tide of Nature its blessing imparts, +Let the spring-tide of Hope send its pulse through our hearts; +Let us feel 'tis a mother, to whose breast we cling, +And a brother we hail, when we welcome the Spring. + + + +ALL FOOL'S DAY. + +The Sun called a beautiful Beam, that was playing + At the door of his golden-wall'd palace on high; +And he bade him be off, without any delaying, + To a fast-fleeting Cloud on the verge of the sky: +"You will give him this letter," said roguish Apollo + (While a sly little twinkle contracted his eye), +With my royal regards; and be sure that you follow + Whatsoever his Highness may send in reply." + +The Beam heard the order, but being no novice, + Took it coolly, of course--nor in this was he wrong-- +But was forced (being a clerk in Apollo's post-office) + To declare (what a bounce!) that he wouldn't be long; +So he went home and dress'd--gave his beard an elision-- + Put his scarlet coat on, nicely edged with gold lace; +And thus being equipped, with a postman's precision, + He prepared to set out on his nebulous race. + +Off he posted at last, but just outside the portals + He lit on earth's high-soaring bird in the dark; +So he tarried a little, like many frail mortals, + Who, when sent on an errand, first go on a lark; +But he broke from the bird--reach'd the cloud in a minute-- + Gave the letter and all, as Apollo ordained; +But the Sun's correspondent, on looking within it, + Found, "Send the fool farther," was all it contained. + +The Cloud, who was up to all mystification, + Quite a humorist, saw the intent of the Sun; +And was ever too airy--though lofty his station-- + To spoil the least taste of the prospect of fun; +So he hemm'd, and he haw'd--took a roll of pure vapour, + Which the light from the beam made as bright as could be, +(Like a sheet of the whitest cream golden-edg'd paper), + And wrote a few words, superscribed, "To the Sea." + +"My dear Beam," or "dear Ray" (t'was thus coolly he hailed him), + "Pray take down to Neptune this letter from me, +For the person you seek--though I lately regaled him-- + Now tries a new airing, and dwells by the sea." +So our Mercury hastened away through the ether, + The bright face of Thetis to gladden and greet; +And he plunged in the water a few feet beneath her, + Just to get a sly peep at her beautiful feet. + +To Neptune the letter was brought for inspection-- + But the god, though a deep one, was still rather green; +So he took a few moments of steady reflection, + Ere he wholly made out what the missive could mean: +But the date (it was "April the first") came to save it + From all fear of mistake; so he took pen in hand, +And, transcribing the cruel entreaty, he gave it + To our travel-tired friend, and said, "Bring it to Land." + +To Land went the Sunbeam, which scarcely received it, + When it sent it, post-haste, back again to the sea; +The Sea's hypocritical calmness deceived it, + And sent it once more to the Land on the lea;-- +From the Land to the Lake--from the Lakes to the Fountains-- + From the Fountains and Streams to the Hills' azure crest, +'Till, at last, a tall Peak on the top of the mountains, + Sent it back to the Cloud in the now golden west. + +He saw the whole trick by the way he was greeted + By the Sun's laughing face, which all purple appears; +Then, amused, yet annoyed at the way he was treated, + He first laughed at the joke, and then burst into tears. +It is thus that this day of mistakes and surprises, + When fools write on foolscap, and wear it the while, +This gay saturnalia for ever arises + 'Mid the showers and the sunshine, the tear and the smile. + + + +DARRYNANE. + +[Written in 1844, after a visit to Darrynane Abbey.] + +Where foams the white torrent, and rushes the rill, +Down the murmuring slopes of the echoing hill-- +Where the eagle looks out from his cloud-crested crags, +And the caverns resound with the panting of stags-- +Where the brow of the mountain is purple with heath, +And the mighty Atlantic rolls proudly beneath, +With the foam of its waves like the snowy 'fenane'--[114] +Oh! that is the region of wild Darrynane! + +Oh! fair are the islets of tranquil Glengariff, +And wild are the sacred recesses of Scariff, +And beauty, and wildness, and grandeur commingle +By Bantry's broad bosom, and wave-wasted Dingle; +But wild as the wildest, and fair as the fairest, +And lit by a lustre that thou alone wearest-- +And dear to the eye and the free heart of man +Are the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane! + +And who is the Chief of this lordly domain? +Does a slave hold the land where a monarch might reign? +Oh! no, by St. Finbar,[115] nor cowards, nor slaves, +Could live in the sound of these free, dashing waves! +A chieftain, the greatest the world has e'er known-- +Laurel his coronet--true hearts his throne-- +Knowledge his sceptre--a Nation his clan-- +O'Connell, the chieftain of proud Darrynane! + +A thousand bright streams on the mountains awake, +Whose waters unite in O'Donoghue's lake-- +Streams of Glanflesk and the dark Gishadine +Filling the heart of that valley divine! +Then rushing in one mighty artery down +To the limitless ocean by murmuring Lowne--[116] +Thus Nature unfolds in her mystical plan +A type of the Chieftain of wild Darrynane! + +In him every pulse of our bosoms unite-- +Our hatred of wrong and our worship of right-- +The hopes that we cherish, the ills we deplore, +All centre within his heart's innermost core, +Which, gathered in one mighty current, are flung +To the ends of the earth from his thunder-toned tongue! +Till the Indian looks up, and the valiant Afghan +Draws his sword at the echo from far Darrynane! + +But here he is only the friend and the father, +Who from children's sweet lips truest wisdom can gather, +And seeks from the large heart of Nature to borrow +Rest for the present and strength for the morrow! +Oh! who that e'er saw him with children about him +And heard his soft tones of affection could doubt him? +My life on the truth of the heart of that man +That throbs like the Chieftain's of wild Darrynane! + +Oh! wild Darrynane, on thy ocean-washed shore, +Shall the glad song of mariners echo once more? +Shall the merchants, and minstrels, and maidens of Spain, +Once again in their swift ships come over the main? +Shall the soft lute be heard, and the gay youths of France +Lead our blue-eyed young maidens again to the dance? +Graceful and shy as thy fawns, Killenane,[117] +Are the mind-moulded maidens of far Darrynane! + +Dear land of the south, as my mind wandered o'er +All the joys I have felt by thy magical shore, +From those lakes of enchantment by oak-clad Glena +To the mountainous passes of bold Iveragh! +Like birds which are lured to a haven of rest, +By those rocks far away on the ocean's bright breast--[118] +Thus my thoughts loved to linger, as memory ran +O'er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane! + + +114. "In the mountains of Slievelougher, and other parts of this +county, the country people, towards the end of June, cut the coarse +mountain grass, called by them 'fenane'; towards August this grass grows +white."--Smith's Kerry. + +115. The abbey on the grounds of Darrynane was founded in the seventh +century by the monks of St. Finbar. + +116. The river Lowne is the only outlet by which all the streams that +form the Lakes of Killarney discharge themselves into the sea--'Lan,' or +'Lowne,' in the old Irish signifying full. + +117. "Killenane lies to the east of Cahir. It has many mountains +towards the sea. These mountains are frequented by herds of fallow +deer, that range about it in perfect security."--Smith's Kerry. + +118. The Skellig Rocks. In describing one of them, Keating says "That +there is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all +the birds which attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to alight upon +the rock." + + + +A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE. + +(On receiving a Shamrock in a Letter from Ireland.) + +O postman! speed thy tardy gait-- + Go quicker round from door to door; +For thee I watch, for thee I wait, + Like many a weary wanderer more. +Thou brightest news of bale and bliss-- + Some life begun, some life well o'er. +He stops--he rings!--O heaven! what's this?-- + A shamrock from the Irish shore! + +Dear emblem of my native land, + By fresh fond words kept fresh and green; +The pressure of an unfelt hand-- + The kisses of a lip unseen; +A throb from my dead mother's heart-- + My father's smile revived once more-- +Oh, youth! oh, love! oh, hope thou art, + Sweet shamrock from the Irish shore! + +Enchanter, with thy wand of power, + Thou mak'st the past be present still: +The emerald lawn--the lime-leaved bower-- + The circling shore--the sunlit hill; +The grass, in winter's wintriest hours, + By dewy daisies dimpled o'er, +Half hiding, 'neath their trembling flowers, + The shamrock of the Irish shore! + +And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed, + By queenly Florence, kingly Rome-- +By Padua's long and lone arcade-- + By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam-- +By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed + My poet sailing calmly o'er; +By all, by each, I mourned and missed + The shamrock of the Irish shore! + +I saw the palm-tree stand aloof, + Irresolute 'twixt the sand and sea: +I saw upon the trellised roof + Outspread the wine that was to be; +A giant-flowered and glorious tree + I saw the tall magnolia soar; +But there, even there, I longed for thee, + Poor shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Now on the ramparts of Boulogne, + As lately by the lonely Rance, +At evening as I watch the sun, + I look! I dream! Can this be France +Not Albion's cliffs, how near they be, + He seems to love to linger o'er; +But gilds, by a remoter sea, + The shamrock on the Irish shore! + +I'm with him in that wholesome clime-- + That fruitful soil, that verdurous sod-- +Where hearts unstained by vulgar crime + Have still a simple faith in God: +Hearts that in pleasure and in pain, + The more they're trod rebound the more, +Like thee, when wet with heaven's own rain, + O shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Memorial of my native land, + True emblem of my land and race-- +Thy small and tender leaves expand + But only in thy native place. +Thou needest for thyself and seed + Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er; +Transplanted thou'rt the merest weed, + O shamrock of the Irish shore. + +Here on the tawny fields of France, + Or in the rank, red English clay, +Thou showest a stronger form perchance; + A bolder front thou mayest display, +More able to resist the scythe + That cut so keen, so sharp before; +But then thou art no more the blithe + Bright shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Ah, me! to think--thy scorns, thy slights, + Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave +On Fredericksburg's ensanguined heights, + Or by Potomac's purpled wave! +Ah, me! to think that power malign + Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore, +And what calm rapture might be thine, + Sweet shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet, + True type of trustful love thou art; +Thou liest the whole year at my feet, + To live but one day at my heart. +One day of festal pride to lie + Upon the loved one's heart--what more? +Upon the loved one's heart to die, + O shamrock of the Irish shore! + +And shall I not return thy love? + And shalt thou not, as thou shouldst, be +Placed on thy son's proud heart above + The red rose or the fleur-de-lis? +Yes, from these heights the waters beat, + I vow to press thy cheek once more, +And lie for ever at thy feet, + O shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Boulogne-sur-Mer, March 17, 1865. + + + +ITALIAN MYRTLES. + +[Suggested by seeing for the first time fire-flies in the myrtle hedges +at Spezzia.] + +By many a soft Ligurian bay + The myrtles glisten green and bright, +Gleam with their flowers of snow by day, + And glow with fire-flies through the night, +And yet, despite the cold and heat, +Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. + +There is an island in the West, + Where living myrtles bloom and blow, +Hearts where the fire-fly Love my rest + Within a paradise of snow-- +Which yet, despite the cold and heat, +Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. + +Deep in that gentle breast of thine-- + Like fire and snow within the pearl-- +Let purity and love combine, + O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl! +And in the cold and in the heat +Be ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. + +Thy bosom bears as pure a snow + As e'er Italia's bowers can boast, +And though no fire-fly lends its glow-- + As on the soft Ligurian coast-- +'Tis warmed by an internal heat +Which ever keeps it pure and sweet. + +The fire-flies fade on misty eves-- + The inner fires alone endure; +Like rain that wets the leaves, + Thy very sorrows keep thee pure-- +They temper a too ardent heat-- +And keep thee ever pure and sweet. + +La Spezzia, 1862. + + + +THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER. + +"Oh! come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; +Oh! come with me, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; +Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, +Who, prattling climb thy ag'ed knees, and call thy daughter--mother. + +"Oh come, and leave this land of death--this isle of desolation-- +This speck upon the sunbright face of God's sublime creation, +Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most malign hath risen, +When Labour seeks the poorhouse, and Innocence the prison. + +"'Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the husky wheat is bending; +'Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better time is sending; +'Tis true the island's aged face looks happier and younger, +But in the best of days we've known the sickness and the hunger. + +"When health breathed out in every breeze, too oft we've known the + fever-- +Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the bereaver: +Too well remember many a time the mournful task that brought him, +When freshness fanned the summer air, and cooled the glow of autumn. + +"But then the trial, though severe, still testified our patience, +We bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's wise dispensations; +We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise and a warning, +Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the morning. + +"But now through all the black expanse no hopeful morning breaketh-- +No bird of promise in our hearts the gladsome song awaketh; +No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of expectation-- +Nought but the gloom that might precede the world's annihilation. + +"So, mother, turn thy ag'ed feet, and let our children lead 'em +Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty and to freedom; +Forgetting nought of all the past, yet all the past forgiving; +Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly unto the living. + +"They tell us, they who read and think of Ireland's ancient story, +How once its emerald flag flung out a sunburst's fleeting glory +Oh! if that sun will pierce no more the dark clouds that efface it, +Fly where the rising stars of heaven commingle to replace it. + +"So come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; +Oh! come with us, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; +Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, +Who, prattling, climb thy ag'ed knees, and call thy daughter--mother." + +"Ah! go, my children, go away--obey this inspiration; +Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; +Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant + prairies; +Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's. + +"But though I feel how sharp the pang from thee and thine to sever, +To look upon these darling ones the last time and for ever; +Yet in this sad and dark old land, by desolation haunted, +My heart has struck its roots too deep ever to be transplanted. + +"A thousand fibres still have life, although the trunk is dying, +They twine around the yet green grave where thy father's bones are + lying; +Ah! from that sad and sweet embrace no soil on earth can loose 'em, +Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, and golden sands its bosom. + +"Others are twined around the stone, where ivy-blossoms smother +The crumbling lines that trace your names, my father and my mother; +God's blessing be upon their souls--God grant, my old heart prayeth, +Their names be written in the Book whose writing ne'er decayeth. + +"Alas! my prayers would never warm within those great cold buildings, +Those grand cathedral churches with their marbles and their gildings; +Far fitter than the proudest dome that would hang in splendour o'er me, +Is the simple chapel's white-washed wall, where my people knelt before + me. + +"No doubt it is a glorious land to which you now are going, +Like that which God bestowed of old, with milk and honey flowing; +But where are the blessed saints of God, whose lives of his law remind + me, +Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columkille, in the land I'd leave behind me? + +"So leave me here, my children, with my old ways and old notions; +Leave me here in peace, with my memories and devotions; +Leave me in sight of your father's grave, and as the heavens allied us, +Let not, since we were joined in life, even the grave divide us. + +"There's not a week but I can hear how you prosper better and better, +For the mighty fire-ships o'er the sea will bring the expected letter; +And if I need aught for my simple wants, my food or my winter firing, +You will gladly spare from your growing store a little for my requiring. + +"Remember with a pitying love the hapless land that bore you; +At every festal season be its gentle form before you; +When the Christmas candle is lighted, and the holly and ivy glisten, +Let your eye look back for a vanished face--for a voice that is silent, + listen! + +"So go, my children, go away--obey this inspiration; +Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; +Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant + prairies; +Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's." + + + +THE RAIN: A SONG OF PEACE.[119] + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain-- +Welcome, welcome, it cometh again; +It cometh with green to gladden the plain, +And to wake the sweets in the winding lane. + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +It fills the flowers to their tiniest vein, +Till they rise from the sod whereon they had lain-- +Ah, me! ah, me! like an army slain. + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +Each drop is a link of a diamond chain +That unites the earth with its sin and its stain +To the radiant realm where God doth reign. + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +Each drop is a tear not shed in vain, +Which the angels weep for the golden grain +All trodden to death on the gory plain; + +For Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +Will waken the golden seeds again! +But, ah! what power will revive the slain, +Stark lying death over fair Lorraine? + +'Twere better far, O beautiful Rain, +That you swelled the torrent and flooded the main; +And that Winter, with all his spectral train, +Alone lay camped on the icy plain. + +For then, O Rain, O beautiful Rain, +The snow-flag of peace were unfurl'd again; +And the truce would be rung in each loud refrain +Of the blast replacing the bugle's strain. + +Then welcome, welcome, beautiful Rain, +Thou bringest flowers to the parched-up plain; +Oh! for many a frenzied heart and brain, +Bring peace and love to the world again! + +August 28, 1870. + + +119. Written during the Franco-German war. + + + + +M. H. Gill & Sons, Printers, Dublin. + + + + +Transcriber's Notes. + + +Source. The collection of poems here presented follows as closely as +possible the 1882 first edition. I assembled this e-text over several +years, either typing or scanning one poem at a time as the spirit moved +me. Some poems were transcribed either from the 1884 second edition, or +from D. F. MacCarthy's earlier publications, depending on whatever +happened to be handy at the time. I have proofread this entire e-text +against the 1882 edition. In many instances there are minor variations, +mostly in punctuation, among the different source material. In some +cases, if the 1882 edition clearly has an error, I have used the other +works as a guide. Where there are variations that are not obviously +errors, I have followed the 1882 edition. It is certainly possible, +where I transcribed from a non-1882 source, that a few variations may +have slipt my notice, and have not been changed. + +General. In the printed source the first word of each section and poem +is in "small capitals," which I have removed as per Project Gutenberg +standards. Elsewhere instances of small capitals are rendered as ALL +CAPITALS. In the printed source the patronymic prefix "Mac" is always +followed by a half space; due to limitations in this electronic format I +have rendered names in ALL CAPITALS with a full space (MAC CAURA) and +names in Mixed Capitals without any space (MacCaura) throughout. In +this plain-text file, italics in the original publication have been +either indicated with "double quotes" or 'single quotes' if contextually +appropriate; otherwise they have simply been dropt. Accents and other +diacritical marks have also been dropt. However, where the original has +an accent over the "e" in a past participle for poetical reasons, I have +marked an e-acute with an apostrophe (as in "belov'ed") and marked an +e-grave with a grave accent (as in "charm`ed") to indicate the intended +pronunciation. For a fully formatted version, with italics, extended +characters, et cetera, please refer to the HTML version of this +collection of poetry, released by Project Gutenberg simultaneously with +this plain text edition. The longest line in this plain-text file is 72 +characters; this means that in some poems I had to wrap the ends of very +long verses to the next line. + +Footnotes. In the printed source footnotes are marked with an asterisk, +dagger, et cetera and placed at the bottom of each page. In this +electronic version I have numbered the footnotes and placed them below +each section or poem. + +Contents. I have removed the page numbers from the contents list. Text +in brackets are my additions, giving alternate/earlier published titles +for the poems. + +Waiting for the May. This poem was published under the title of "Summer +Longings" in "The Bell-Founder and Other Poems," 1857. + +Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird. This poem was published under the title +of "Home Preference" in The Bell-Founder and Other Poems, 1857. + +Ferdiah. The ballad between Mave and Ferdiah includes some long lines +of text that would require (due to electronic publishing line length +standards) occasionally breaking a line ending to make a new line. +Because there is an internal rhyme in these lines, and for more +consistent formatting, I have decided to break every line here at the +internal rhyme, but not capitalizing the beginning of resultant new +line. For example, "Which many an arm less brave than thine, which many +a heart less bold, would claim?" is one line of verse in the 1882 +edition, but I have formatted it as "Which many an arm less brave than +thine, / which many a heart less bold, would claim?" For purposes of +recording errata below, I have not numbered these new pseudo-lines. The +word "creit" is taken directly from the Irish text untranslated--a +roughly equivalent English word is "frame." + +The Voyage of St. Brendan. Note 56 refers to a puffin (Anas leucopsis) +or 'girrinna.' The bird, at least by 2004 classification, is not a +puffin but a barnacle goose (Branta leucopsis) and I found one reference +to its Irish name as 'ge ghiurain.' As these birds nest in remote areas +of the arctic, people were quite free to invent stories of their +origins. + +The Dead Tribune. The subject of this poem is Daniel O'Connell +(1775-1847), an Irish political leader and Minister of Parliament. In +ill health, his doctor advised he go to a warmer climate; he died en +route to Rome for a pilgrimage. The 1882 edition has the word "knawing" +which is an obsolete variant of "gnawing"; the latter appears in the +1884 edition. + +A Mystery. The spelling of "Istambol" is intentional--the current +"Istanbul" was not adopted until the twentieth century. The name +probably derives from an old nickname for Constantinople, but the +complexity of this city's naming is beyond the capacity of a footnote. + +To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. MacCarthy's translation of Calderon's +"The Two Lovers of Heaven: Chrysanthus and Daria" has been released as +Project Gutenberg e-text #12173. + +To Ethna. This poem was published under the listing of "Dedicatory +Sonnet" and dated 1850 in The Bell-Founder and Other Poems, 1857. + +O'Connell. See note a few lines up on "The Dead Tribune." My +correction of the phrase "heaven's high fault" is not based on any other +published edition. It is conjectural, based on the illogicality of the +phrase and MacCarthy's use of the phrase "heaven's high vault" in his +translation of Calderon's "The Purgatory of St. Patrick" (Project +Gutenberg e-text #6371) published two years before this poem was +written. + +Moore. The subject of this poem is Thomas Moore (1779-1852). A +collection of his poems has been released as Project Gutenberg e-text +#8187, but note that the biographical sketch therein mistakenly lists +1780 as his birth year. In this poem "Shakspere" is not misspelt; it is +one of many variants used during and after the bard's lifetime (my +favorite is "Shaxpere" from 1582). + +To Ethna. This poem bears the same title as a sonnet, also in this +collection of poems. + +The Irish Emigrant's Mother. This poem was published under the title of +"The Emigrants" in The Bell-Founder and Other Poems, 1857. + + + + +Errata. + + +Printer's errors found in the 1882 edition have been corrected in this +electronic edition. While I have no desire to standardize Mr. +MacCarthy's spelling or curtail his poetic license, in some cases where +I could not find a documented variant matching the printed source I have +replaced it and listed the change here. Occasionally I have inserted +punctuation where it is obviously missing. Naturally it is possible +that some of these "corrections" are themselves erroneous. When in +doubt about either a spelling or punctuation error, I have followed the +text of the original. The list below does not include minor corrections +(punctuation and capitalization) in notes or introductions. + +The [original text is in brackets] and {corrected text is in braces} +below. + + +Contents. [The Year King] {The Year-King} / [The Awakening] +{The Awaking} / [The Voice and the Pen] {The Voice and Pen} + +Waiting for the May. line 9 [longing] {longing,} + +Kate of Kenmare. line 37 [and] {land} + +A Lament. line 117 [strewn] {strown} + +Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird. line 35 [home] {home,} + +The Fireside. line 20 [fireside.] {fireside!} + +Autumn Fears. line 40 [field] {field!} / line 48 [field] {field!} + +Ferdiah. line 69 [birds sing] {bird sings} / line 590 [ogether] +{Together} / line 1007 [gle] {glen} / line 1229 [be.'] {be."} + +The Voyage of St. Brendan. note 64 [tanagar] {tanager} / note 65 +[driole] {oriole} + +The Foray of Con O'Donnell. line 347 [and come] {and some} / line 407 +[seagull] {sea gull} + +The Bell-Founder. subheader [Vicissitude and Rest.] +{Part III.--Vicissitude and Rest.} + +Alice and Una. line 77 [Glengarifl's] {Glengariff's} / note 100 +[Digialis] {Digitalis} + +The Voice and Pen. line 35 [orator s] {orator's} + +The Arraying. line 59 [verduous] {verdurous} + +Welcome, May. line 30 [footseps] {footsteps} + +The Progress of the Rose. line 65 [beateous] {beauteous} + +The Year-King. line 114 [iu] {in} + +The Awaking. line 11 [fear] {fear,} / line 29 [known] {known:} + +The First of the Angels. line 32 [grass-bearing; lea] +{grass-bearing lea} + +Spirit Voices. title [VOICES] {VOICES.} / line 78 [prodnce] {produce} + +O'Connell. line 123 [fault] {vault} / line 283 [it] {its} + +Moore. line 101 [countr y] {country} + +"Not Known". line 39 [Not] {NOT} + +The Lay Missioner. line 20 [tis] {'tis} + +Recollections. line 94 [hundreth] {hundredth} + +Spring Flowers from Ireland. line 96 [own] {own.} + +The Birth of the Spring. line 21 [When] {when} / line 29 [nowledge] +{knowledge} + +Darrynane. line 30 [Lowne?] {Lowne--} / line 52 [main] {main?} + +The Irish Emigrant's Mother. line 10 [Tis] {'Tis} + +The Rain: a Song of Peace. line 32 [again] {again!} + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Denis Florence MacCarthy + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12622 *** diff --git a/12622-h/12622-h.htm b/12622-h/12622-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..216cdc5 --- /dev/null +++ b/12622-h/12622-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11523 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= +"text/html; charset=UTF-8" /> +<title>Poems, by Denis Florence MacCarthy</title> +</head> +<body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12622 ***</div> + +<hr /> +<center> +<h1>POEMS</h1> +<h5>BY</h5> +<h2>DENIS FLORENCE MAC CARTHY</h2> +<hr width="25%" /> +<h3>DUBLIN</h3> +<h4>M. H. GILL AND SON,</h4> +<h5>50 UPPER SACKVILLE STREET</h5> +<h4>1882</h4> +<hr width="50%" /> +<h6>M. H. GILL AND SON, PRINTERS, DUBLIN</h6> +<hr width="50%" /> +<h2>Memorial to Denis Florence MacCarthy.</h2> +</center> +<p>A Committee of friends and admirers of the late Denis Florence +MacCarthy has been formed for the purpose of perpetuating +in a fitting manner the memory of this distinguished Irish +poet.  Among the contributors to the Memorial Fund are +Cardinal Newman, Cardinal MacCabe, Cardinal MacClosky; +Most Rev. Dr. M'Gettigan, Most Rev. Dr. Croke, Most Rev. +Dr. Butler, and many of the Irish Clergy; Lord O'Hagan, the +Marquis of Ripon, Archbishop Trench, Judge O'Hagan, Sir. C. +G. Duffy, Aubrey de Vere, Sir Samuel Ferguson, and Dr. J. +K. Ingram.</p> +<p>Subscriptions will be received by the Lord Mayor, Mansion +House, Dublin; by Dr. James Brady, 38 Harcourt-st; Mr. W. +L. Joynt, D. L., 43 Merrion-square; Rev. C. P. Meehan, SS. +Michael and John's; or by any Member of the Committee.</p> +<p><a name="contents" id="contents"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> +</center> +<hr width="20%" /> +<ul> +<li><a href="#preface">Preface</a></li> +</ul> +<center> +<h3>B<font size="-1">ALLADS AND</font> L<font size="-1">YRICS</font>.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><a href="#p001">Waiting for the May</a> +   <font size="-1">[<i>Summer Longings</i>]</font></li> +<li><a href="#p002">Devotion</a></li> +<li><a href="#p004">The Seasons of the Heart</a></li> +<li><a href="#p005">Kate of Kenmare</a></li> +<li><a href="#p007">A Lament</a></li> +<li><a href="#p011">The Bridal of the Year</a></li> +<li><a href="#p017">The Vale of Shanganah</a></li> +<li><a href="#p019">The Pillar Towers of Ireland</a></li> +<li><a href="#p021">Over the Sea</a></li> +<li><a href="#p023">Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird</a> +   <font size="-1">[<i>Home Preference</i>]</font></li> +<li><a href="#p025">Love's Language</a></li> +<li><a href="#p026">The Fireside</a></li> +<li><a href="#p028">The Banished Spirit's Song</a></li> +<li><a href="#p029">Remembrance</a></li> +<li><a href="#p030">The Clan of MacCaura</a></li> +<li><a href="#p034">The Window</a></li> +<li><a href="#p035">Autumn Fears</a></li> +<li><a href="#p036">Fatal Gifts</a></li> +<li><a href="#p037">Sweet May</a></li> +<li><a href="#p039">F<font size="-2">ERDIAH:</font> an Episode from the + <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné</i></a></li> +<li><a href="#p083">T<font size="-2">HE</font> V<font size="-2">OYAGE OF</font> + S<font size="-2">T.</font> B<font size="-2">RENDAN</font></a></li> +<li><a href="#p106">T<font size="-2">HE</font> F<font size="-2">ORAY OF</font> + C<font size="-2">ON</font> O'D<font size="-2">ONNELL</font></a></li> +<li><a href="#p124">T<font size="-2">HE</font> + B<font size="-2">ELL-</font>F<font size="-2">OUNDER</font></a></li> +<li><a href="#p140">A<font size="-2">LICE AND</font> + U<font size="-2">NA</font></a></li> +</ul> +<center> +<h3>N<font size="-1">ATIONAL</font> P<font size="-1">OEMS AND</font> + S<font size="-1">ONGS</font>.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><a href="#p154">Advance!</a></li> +<li><a href="#p157">Remonstrance</a></li> +<li><a href="#p159">Ireland's Vow</a></li> +<li><a href="#p160">A Dream</a></li> +<li><a href="#p162">The Price of Freedom</a></li> +<li><a href="#p164">The Voice and Pen</a></li> +<li><a href="#p165">"Cease to do Evil—Learn to do Well"</a></li> +<li><a href="#p167">The Living Land</a></li> +<li><a href="#p169">The Dead Tribune</a></li> +<li><a href="#p171">A Mystery</a></li> +</ul> +<center> +<h3>S<font size="-1">ONNETS</font>.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><a href="#p174a">"The History of Dublin"</a></li> +<li><a href="#p174b">To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</a></li> +<li><a href="#p175">To Kenelm Henry Digby</a></li> +<li><a href="#p176">To Ethna</a> +   <font size="-1">[<i>Dedicatory Sonnet</i>]</font></li> +</ul> +<center> +<h3>U<font size="-1">NDERGLIMPSES</font>.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><a href="#p177">The Arraying</a></li> +<li><a href="#p180">The Search</a></li> +<li><a href="#p181">The Tidings</a></li> +<li><a href="#p183">Welcome, May</a></li> +<li><a href="#p185">The Meeting of the Flowers</a></li> +<li><a href="#p193">The Progress of the Rose</a></li> +<li><a href="#p200">The Bath of the Streams</a></li> +<li><a href="#p203">The Flowers of the Tropics</a></li> +<li><a href="#p205">The Year-King</a></li> +<li><a href="#p211">The Awaking</a></li> +<li><a href="#p213">The Resurrection</a></li> +<li><a href="#p214">The First of the Angels</a></li> +<li><a href="#p216">Spirit Voices</a></li> +</ul> +<center> +<h3>C<font size="-1">ENTENARY</font> O<font size="-1">DES</font>.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><a href="#p219">O'Connell (August 6th, 1875)</a></li> +<li><a href="#p229">Moore (May 28th, 1879)</a></li> +</ul> +<center> +<h3>M<font size="-1">ISCELLANEOUS</font> P<font size="-1">OEMS</font>.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><a href="#p239">The Spirit of the Snow</a></li> +<li><a href="#p243">To the Bay of Dublin</a></li> +<li><a href="#p245">To Ethna</a></li> +<li><a href="#p246">"Not Known"</a></li> +<li><a href="#p248">The Lay Missioner</a></li> +<li><a href="#p251">The Spirit of the Ideal</a></li> +<li><a href="#p256">Recollections</a></li> +<li><a href="#p260a">Dolores</a></li> +<li><a href="#p260b">Lost and Found</a></li> +<li><a href="#p262">Spring Flowers from Ireland</a></li> +<li><a href="#p265">To the Memory of Father Prout</a></li> +<li><a href="#p266">Those Shandon Bells</a></li> +<li><a href="#p267a">Youth and Age</a></li> +<li><a href="#p267b">To June</a></li> +<li><a href="#p269">Sunny Days in Winter</a></li> +<li><a href="#p270">The Birth of the Spring</a></li> +<li><a href="#p272">All Fool's Day</a></li> +<li><a href="#p275">Darrynane</a></li> +<li><a href="#p277">A Shamrock from the Irish Shore</a></li> +<li><a href="#p280">Italian Myrtles</a></li> +<li><a href="#p281">The Irish Emigrant's Mother</a> +   <font size="-1">[<i>The Emigrants</i>]</font></li> +<li><a href="#p286">The Rain: a Song of Peace</a></li> +</ul> +<hr width="10%" /> +<ul> +<li>[<a href="#note-2004">Transcriber's Notes</a>]</li> +<li>[<a href="#errata-2004">Errata</a>]</li> +</ul> +<p><a name="preface" id="preface"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2>PREFACE.</h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +</center> +<p>This volume contains, besides the poems published +in 1850 and 1857,<sup>1</sup> the odes written for the +centenary celebrations in honour of O'Connell in +1875, and of Moore in 1879.  To these are added +several sonnets and miscellaneous poems now first +collected, and the episode of "Ferdiah" translated +from the <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné.</i></p> +<p>Born in Dublin,<sup>2</sup> May 26th, 1817, my father, +while still very young, showed a decided taste for +literature.  The course of his boyish reading +is indicated in his "Lament."  Some verses from +his pen, headed "My Wishes," appeared in the +<i>Dublin Satirist,</i> April 12th, 1834.  This was, as +far as I can discover, the earliest of his writings +published.  To the journal just mentioned he +frequently contributed, both in prose and verse, +during the next two years.  The following are +some of the titles:—"The Greenwood Hill;" +"Songs of other Days" (Belshazzar's Feast—Thoughts +in the Holy Land—Thoughts of the +Past); "Life," "Death," "Fables" (The +Zephyr and the Sensitive Plant—The Tulip and +the Rose—The Bee and the Rose); "Songs of +Birds" (Nightingale—Eagle—Phœnix—Fire-fly); +"Songs of the Winds," &c.</p> +<p>On October 14th, 1843, his first contribution +("Proclamation Songs," No. 1) appeared in the +Dublin <i>Nation.</i>  "Here is a song by a new +recruit," wrote Mr., now Sir, Charles Gavan +Duffy, "which we should give in our leading +columns if they were not preoccupied."  In the +next number I find "The Battle of Clontarf," +with this editorial note: "'Desmond' is entitled +to be enrolled in our national brigade."  "A +Dream" soon follows; and at intervals, between +this date and 1849—besides many other poems—all +the National songs and most of the Ballads +included in this volume.  In April, 1847, "The +Bell-Founder" and "The Foray of Con O'Donnell" +appeared in the <i>University Magazine,</i> in which +"Waiting for the May," "The Bridal of the +Year," and "The Voyage of Saint Brendan," +were subsequently published (in January and +May, 1848).  Meanwhile, in 1846, the year in +which he was called to the bar, he edited the +"Poets and Dramatists of Ireland," with an +introduction, which evinced considerable reading, +on the early religion and literature of the Irish +people.  In the same year he also edited the +"Book of Irish Ballads," to which he prefixed an +introduction on ballad poetry.  This volume was +republished with additions and a preface in 1869.  +In 1853, the poems afterwards published under the +title of "Underglimpses" were chiefly written.<sup>3</sup></p> +<p>The plays of Calderon—thoroughly national in +form and matter—have met with but scant appreciation +from foreigners.  Yet we find his +genius recognized in unexpected quarters, Goethe +and Shelley uniting with Augustus Schlegel and +Archbishop Trench to pay him homage.  My +father was, I think, first led to the study of +Calderon by Shelley's glowing eulogy of the poet +("Essays," vol. ii., p. 274, and elsewhere).  The +first of his translations was published in 1853, the +last twenty years later.  They consist<sup>4</sup> of fifteen +complete plays, which I believe to be the largest +amount of translated verse by any one author, +that has ever appeared in English.  Most of it +is in the difficult assonant or vowel rhyme, hardly +ever previously attempted in our language.  This +may be a fitting place to cite a few testimonies as +to the execution of the work.  Longfellow, whom +I have myself heard speak of the "Autos" in a +way that showed how deeply he had studied them +in the original, wrote, in 1857: "You are doing +this work admirably, and seem to gain new +strength and sweetness as you go on.  It seems as +if Calderon himself were behind you whispering +and suggesting.  And what better work could you +do in your bright hours or in your dark hours +that just this, which seems to have been put providentially +into your hands."  Again, in 1862: +"Your new work in the vast and flowery fields of +Calderon is, I think, admirable, and presents the +old Spanish dramatist before the English reader +in a very attractive light.  Particularly in the +most poetical passages you are excellent; as, for +instance, in the fine description of the gerfalcon +and the heron in 'El Mayor Encanto.'  I hope +you mean to add more and more, so as to make +the translation as nearly complete as a single life +will permit.  It seems rather appalling to undertake +the whole of so voluminous a writer; nevertheless, +I hope you will do it.  Having proved +that you can, perhaps you ought to do it.  This +may be your appointed work.  It is a noble one."<sup>5</sup>  +Ticknor ("History of Spanish Literature," new +edition, vol. iii. p. 461) writes thus: "Calderon +is a poet who, whenever he is translated, should +have his very excesses and extravagances, both in +thought and manner, fully reproduced, in order to +give a faithful idea of what is grandest and most +distinctive in his genius.  Mr. MacCarthy has +done this, I conceive, to a degree which I had +previously supposed impossible.  Nothing, I think, +in the English language will give us so true an +impression of what is most characteristic of the +Spanish drama; perhaps I ought to say, of what is +most characteristic of Spanish poetry generally."</p> +<p>Another eminent Hispaniologist (Mr. C. F. Bradford, +of Boston) has spoken of the work in similar +terms.  His labours did not pass without recognition +from the great dramatist's countrymen.  He +was elected a member of the Real Academia some +years ago, and in 1881 this learned body presented +him with the medal struck in commemoration of +Calderon's bicentenary, "in token of their gratitude +and their appreciation of his translations of +the great poet's works."</p> +<p>In 1855, at the request of the Marchioness of +Donegal, my father wrote the ode which was recited +at the inauguration of the statue of her son, +the Earl of Belfast.  About the same time, his +Lectures on Poetry were delivered at the Catholic +University at the desire of Cardinal Newman.  +The Lectures on the Poets of Spain, and on the +Dramatists of the Sixteenth Century, were delivered +a few years later.  In 1862 he published a +curious bibliographical treatise on the "Mémoires +of the Marquis de Villars."  In 1864 the ill-health +of some of his family his leaving +his home near Killiney Hill<sup>6</sup> to reside on +the Continent.  In 1872, "Shelley's Early Life" +was published in London, where he had settled, +attracted by the facilities for research which its +great libraries offered.  This biography gives an +amusing account of the young poet's visit to +Dublin in 1812, and some new details of his +adventures and writings at this period.  My father's +admiration for Shelley was of long standing.  At the +age of seventeen he wrote some lines to the poet's +memory, which appeared in the <i>Dublin Satirist</i> +already mentioned, and an elaborate review of his +poetry in an early number of the <i>Nation.</i>  I have +before alluded to Shelley's influence in directing +his attention to Calderon.  The centenary odes in +honour of O'Connell and Moore were written, in +1875 and 1879, at the request of the committees +which had charge of these celebrations.  He +returned to Ireland a few months before his death, +which took place at Blackrock, near Dublin, on +April 7th,<sup>7</sup> in the present year.  His nature +was most sensitive, but though it was his lot to +suffer many sorrows, I never heard a complaint or +and unkind word from his lips.</p> +<p>From what has been said it will be evident that +this volume contains only a part of his poetical +works, it having been found impossible to include +the humorous pieces, parodies, and epigrams, +without some acquaintance with which an imperfect +idea would be formed of his genius.  +The same may be said of his numerous translations +from various languages (exclusive of +Calderon's plays).  Of those published in 1850, +"The Romance of Maleca," "Saint George's +Knight," "The Christmas of the Foreign Child," +and others have been frequently reprinted.  He +has since rendered from the Spanish poems by +Juan de Pedraza, Antonio de Trueba, Garcilaso +de la Vega, Gongora and "Fernan Caballero," +whom he visited when in Spain shortly before her +death, and whose prose story, "The Two Muleteers," +he has also translated.  To these must +be added, besides several shorter ballads from +Duran's Romancero General, "The Poem of the +Cid," "The Romance of Gayferos," and "The +Infanta of France."  The last is a metrical tale +of the fourteenth or fifteenth century, presenting +analogies with the "Thousand and One +Nights," and probably drawn from an Oriental +source.  His translations from the Latin, chiefly +of mediæval hymns, are also numerous.</p> +<p>In inserting the poem of "Ferdiah" I was +influenced by its subject as well as by the wish of +friends.  A few extracts appeared in a magazine +several years ago, and it was afterwards completed +without any view to publication.  It +follows the present Irish text<sup>8</sup> as closely as the +laws of metre will allow.  Since these pages were +in the printer's hands Mr. Aubrey de Vere has +given to the world his treatment of the same +theme,<sup>9</sup> adorning as usual all that he touches.  +As he well says: "It is not in the form of translation +that an ancient Irish tale of any considerable +length admits of being rendered in poetry.  +What is needed is to select from the original such +portions as are at once the most essential to the +story, and the most characteristic, reproducing +them in a condensed form, and taking care that +the necessary additions bring out the idea, and +contain nothing that is not in the spirit of the +original."  (Preface, p. vii.)  The "Tale of Troy +Divine" owes its form, and we may never know +how much of its tenderness and grace, to its +Alexandrian editor.  However, the present version +may, from its very literalness, have and interest +for some readers.</p> +<p>Many of the earlier poems here collected have +been admirably rendered into French by the late +M. Ernest de Chatelain.<sup>10</sup>  The Moore Centenary +Ode has been translated into Latin by the Rev. +M. J. Blacker, M. A.</p> +<p>My thanks are due to the Rev. Matthew Russell, +S. J., for his kind assistance in preparing this book +for the press, and to the Publishers for the accuracy +and speed with which it has been produced.</p> +<p>I cannot let pass this opportunity of expressing +my gratitude for the self-sacrificing labours of +the committee formed at the suggestion of Mr. +William Lane Joynt, D. L., to honour my father's +memory, and for the generous response his friends +have made to their appeal.<sup>11</sup></p> +<center> +<h3>JOHN MAC CARTHY</h3> +</center> +<p><font size="-1"><i>Blackrock, Dublin, August,</i> 1882.</font></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<p><sup>1</sup> "Ballads, Poems, and Lyrics, Original and Translated:"  +Dublin, 1850.  "The Bell-Founder, and other Poems," +"Underglimpses, and other Poems:" London, 1857.  A few pieces +which seemed not to be of abiding interest have been omitted.</p> +<p><sup>2</sup> At 24 Lower Sackville-street.  +The house, with others adjoining, was pulled down several years ago.  +Their site is now occupied by the Imperial Hotel.</p> +<p><sup>3</sup> The subjective view of nature developed in these Poems +has been censured as remote from human interest.  Yet a critic +of deep insight, George Gilfillan, declares his special admiration +for "the joyous, sunny, lark-like carols on May, almost +worthy of Shelley, and such delicate, tender, Moore-like +<i>trifles</i> (shall I call them?) as <i>All Fool's Day.</i>  + The whole" he +adds, "is full of a beautiful poetic spirit, and rich resources +both of fancy and language."  I may be permitted to transcribe +here an extract from some unpublished comments by +Sir William Rowan Hamilton on another poem of the same +class.  His remarks are interesting in themselves, as coming +from one illustrious as a man of science, and, at the same +time, a true poet—a combination which may hereafter become +more frequent, since already in the vast regions of space and +time brought within human ken, imagination strives hard to +keep pace with established fact.  In a manuscript volume +now in the Library of Trinity College, Dublin, he writes, +under date, May, 1848:—</p> +<p>"<i>The University Magazine</i> for the present month contains +a poem which delights one, entitled 'The Bridal of the Year.'  +It is signed 'D. F. M. C.,' as is also a shorter, but almost a +sweeter piece immediately following it, and headed, 'Summer +Longings.'"</p> +<p>Sir William goes through the whole poem, copying and +criticising every stanza, and concludes as follows:—</p> +<p>"After a very pretty ninth stanza respecting the 'fairy +phantoms' in the poet's 'glorious visions seen,' which the +author conceives to 'follow the poet's steps beneath the +morning's beam,' he burst into rapture at the approach of the +Bride herself—</p> +<pre> + "'Bright as are the planets seven-- + with her glances + She advances, + For her azure eyes are Heaven! + And her robes are sunbeams woven, + And her beauteous bridesmaids are + Hopes and wishes-- + Dreams delicious-- + Joys from some serener star, + And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar!' +</pre> +<p>"Her eyes <i>are</i> heaven, her robes <i>are</i> sunbeams, and with +these physical aspects of the May, how well does the author +of this ode (for such, surely, we may term the poem, so rich in +lyrical enthusiasm and varied melody) conceive the combination +as bridesmaids, as companions to the bride; of those +mental feelings, those new buddings of hope in the heart which +the season is fitted to awaken.  The azure eyes glitter back +to ours, for the planets shine upon us from the lovely summer +night; but lovelier still are those 'dreams delicious, joys from +some serener star,' which at the same sweet season float down +invisibly, and win their entrance to our souls.  The image of +a bridal is happily and naturally kept before us in the remaining +stanzas of this poem, which well deserve to be copied +here, in continuation of these notes—the former for its cheerfulness, +the latter for its sweetness.  I wish that I knew the +author, or even that I were acquainted with his name.—Since +ascertained to be D. F. MacCarthy."</p> +<p><sup>4</sup> The following are the titles and dates of publication:  +In 1853, "The Constant Prince," "The Secret in Words," +"The Physician of his own Honour," "Love after Death," +"The Purgatory of St. Patrick," "The Scarf and the +Flower."  In 1861, "The Greatest Enchantment," "The +Sorceries of Sin," "Devotion of the Cross."  In 1867, "Belshazzar's +Feast," "The Divine Philothea" (with Essays from +the German of Lorinser, and the Spanish of Gonzales Pedroso).  +In 1870, "Chrysanthus and Daria, the Two Lovers of +Heaven."  In 1873, "The Wonder-working Magician," "Life +is a Dream," "The Purgatory of St. Patrick" (a new translation +entirely in the assonant metre).  Introductions and +notes are added to all these plays.  Another, "Daybreak in +Copacabana," was finished a few months before his death, and +has not been published.</p> +<p><sup>5</sup> When the author of "Evangeline" visited Europe for the +last time in 1869, they met in Italy.  The + <a href="#p174b">sonnets at p. 174</a> +refer to this occasion.</p> +<p><sup>6</sup> The "Campo de Estio," described in the lines "Not Known."</p> +<p><sup>7</sup> A fortnight after that of Longfellow.  His attached +friend and early associate, Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, perished +by assassination at Ottawa on the same day and month +fourteen years ago.</p> +<p><sup>8</sup> Edited by his friend Br. W. K. Sullivan, President of +Queen's College, Cork, who, I may add, has in preparation a +paper on the "Voyage of St. Brendan," and on other ancient +Irish accounts of voyages, of which he finds an explanation in +Keltic mythology.  The paper will appear in the Transactions +of the American Geographical Society.</p> +<p><sup>9</sup> "The Combat at the Ford" being Fragment III. of his +"Legends of Ireland's Heroic Age."  London, 1882.</p> +<p><sup>10</sup> In his <i>"Beautés de la Poesie Anglaise, +Rayons et Reflets,"</i> &c.</p> +<p><sup>11</sup> The first meeting was held on April 15th, at the Mansion +House, Dublin, under the presidency of the Lord Mayor, +the Right Hon. Charles Dawson, M. P.</p> +<p><a name="p001" id="p001"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2><i>Poems.</i></h2> +<hr width="50%" /> +<h2>BALLADS AND LYRICS.</h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +<h3>WAITING FOR THE MAY.</h3> +</center> +<pre> + Ah! my heart is weary waiting, + Waiting for the May-- +Waiting for the pleasant rambles, +Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, + With the woodbine alternating, + Scent the dewy way. + Ah! my heart is weary waiting, + Waiting for the May. + + Ah! my heart is sick with longing, + Longing for the May-- +Longing to escape from study, +To the young face fair and ruddy, + And the thousand charms belonging + To the summer's day. + Ah! my heart is sick with longing, + Longing for the May. + + Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, + Sighing for the May-- +Sighing for their sure returning, +When the summer beams are burning, + Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, + All the winter lay. + Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, + Sighing for the May. + + Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing, + Throbbing for the May-- +Throbbing for the sea-side billows, +Or the water-wooing willows, + Where in laughing and in sobbing + Glide the streams away. + Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing, + Throbbing for the May. + + Waiting sad, dejected, weary, + Waiting for the May. +Spring goes by with wasted warnings, +Moon-lit evenings, sun-bright mornings; + Summer comes, yet dark and dreary + Life still ebbs away: + Man is ever weary, weary, + Waiting for the May! +</pre> +<p><a name="p002" id="p002"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>DEVOTION.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +When I wander by the ocean, +When I view its wild commotion, +Then the spirit of devotion + Cometh near; +And it fills my brain and bosom, + Like a fear! + +I fear its booming thunder, +Its terror and its wonder, +Its icy waves, that sunder + Heart from heart; +And the white host that lies under + Makes me start. + +Its clashing and its clangour +Proclaim the Godhead's anger-- +I shudder, and with langour + Turn away; +No joyance fills my bosom + For that day. + +When I wander through the valleys, +When the evening zephyr dallies, +And the light expiring rallies + In the stream, +That spirit comes and glads me, + Like a dream. + +The blue smoke upward curling, +The silver streamlet purling, +The meadow wildflowers furling + Their leaflets to repose: +All woo me from the world + And its woes. + +The evening bell that bringeth +A truce to toil outringeth, +No sweetest bird that singeth + Half so sweet, +Not even the lark that springeth + From my feet. + +Then see I God beside me, +The sheltering trees that hide me, +The mountains that divide me + From the sea: +All prove how kind a Father + He can be. + +Beneath the sweet moon shining +The cattle are reclining, +No murmur of repining + Soundeth sad: +All feel the present Godhead, + And are glad. + +With mute, unvoiced confessings, +To the Giver of all blessings +I kneel, and with caressings + Press the sod, +And thank my Lord and Father, + And my God. +</pre> +<p><a name="p004" id="p004"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE SEASONS OF THE HEART.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The different hues that deck the earth +All in our bosoms have their birth; +'Tis not in the blue or sunny skies, +'Tis in the heart the summer lies! +The earth is bright if that be glad, +Dark is the earth if that be sad: +And thus I feel each weary day-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +In vain, upon her emerald car, +Comes Spring, "the maiden from afar," +And scatters o'er the woods and fields +The liberal gifts that nature yields; +In vain the buds begin to grow, +In vain the crocus gilds the snow; +I feel no joy though earth be gay-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +And when the Autumn crowns the year, +And ripened hangs the golden ear, +And luscious fruits of ruddy hue +The bending boughs are glancing through, +When yellow leaves from sheltered nooks +Come forth and try the mountain brooks, +Even then I feel, as there I stray-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +And when the winter comes at length, +With swaggering gait and giant strength, +And with his strong arms in a trice +Binds up the streams in chains of ice, +What need I sigh for pleasures gone, +The twilight eve, the rosy dawn? +My heart is changed as much as they-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +Even now, when Summer lends the scene +Its brightest gold, its purest green, +Whene'er I climb the mountain's breast, +With softest moss and heath-flowers dress'd, +When now I hear the breeze that stirs +The golden bells that deck the furze, +Alas! unprized they pass away-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +But when thou comest back once more, +Though dark clouds hang and loud winds roar, +And mists obscure the nearest hills, +And dark and turbid roll the rills, +Such pleasures then my breast shall know, +That summer's sun shall round me glow; +Then through the gloom shall gleam the May-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! +</pre> +<p><a name="p005" id="p005"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>KATE OF KENMARE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Oh! many bright eyes full of goodness and gladness, + Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine, +And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadness, + Have I worshipped in silence and felt them divine! +But Hope in its gleamings, or Love in its dreamings, + Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair +As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,[12] + The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +It was all but a moment, her radiant existence, + Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me; +But time has not ages and earth has not distance + To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee! +Again am I straying where children are playing, + Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air, +Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee, + Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare! + +Thine arbutus beareth full many a cluster + Of white waxen blossoms like lilies in air; +But, oh! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre + No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear; +To that cheek softly flushing, thy lip brightly blushing, + Oh! what are the berries that bright tree doth bear? +Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty, + That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +O Beauty! some spell from kind Nature thou bearest, + Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye, +That hearts that are hardest, from forms that are fairest, + Receive such impressions as never can die! +The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy,[13] + Can stamp on the hard rock the shapes it doth wear; +Art cannot trace it, nor ages efface it: + And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +To him who far travels how sad is the feeling, + How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim, +When the scenes he most loves, like a river's soft stealing, + All fade as a vision and vanish from him! +Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that garland + That memory weaves of the bright and the fair; +While this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreathing, + And the rose of that garland is Kate of Kenmare! + +In lonely Lough Quinlan in summer's soft hours, + Fair islands are floating that move with the tide, +Which, sterile at first, are soon covered with flowers, + And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like glide. +Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awakened, + And the heart bears a harvest that late was so bare, +Of him who in roving finds objects of loving, + Like the fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +Sweet Kate of Kenmare! though I ne'er may behold thee, + Though the pride and the joy of another thou be, +Though strange lips may praise thee, and strange arms enfold thee, + A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on thee! +One feeling I cherish that never can perish-- + One talisman proof to the dark wizard care-- +The fervent and dutiful love of the Beautiful, + Of which thou art a type, gentle Kate of Kenmare! +</pre> +<p><sup>12</sup> The river of Kenmare.</p> +<p><sup>13</sup> Near the town is the "Fairy Rock," on which the marks + of several feet are deeply impressed.  It derives its name from + the popular belief that these are the work of fairies.</p> +<p><a name="p007" id="p007"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>A LAMENT.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The dream is over, +The vision has flown; +Dead leaves are lying +Where roses have blown; +Wither'd and strown +Are the hopes I cherished,-- +All hath perished +But grief alone. + +My heart was a garden +Where fresh leaves grew +Flowers there were many, +And weeds a few; +Cold winds blew, +And the frosts came thither, +For flowers will wither, +And weeds renew! + +Youth's bright palace +Is overthrown, +With its diamond sceptre +And golden throne; +As a time-worn stone +Its turrets are humbled,-- +All hath crumbled +But grief alone! + +Wither, oh, whither, +Have fled away +The dreams and hopes +Of my early day? +Ruined and gray +Are the towers I builded; +And the beams that gilded-- +Ah! where are they? + +Once this world +Was fresh and bright, +With its golden noon +And its starry night; +Glad and light, +By mountain and river, +Have I bless'd the Giver +With hushed delight. + +These were the days +Of story and song, +When Hope had a meaning +And Faith was strong. +"Life will be long, +And lit with Love's gleamings;" +Such were my dreamings, +But, ah, how wrong! + +Youth's illusions, +One by one, +Have passed like clouds +That the sun looked on. +While morning shone, +How purple their fringes! +How ashy their tinges +When that was gone! + +Darkness that cometh +Ere morn has fled-- +Boughs that wither +Ere fruits are shed-- +Death bells instead +Of a bridal's pealings-- +Such are my feelings, +Since Hope is dead! + +Sad is the knowledge +That cometh with years-- +Bitter the tree +That is watered with tears; +Truth appears, +With his wise predictions, +Then vanish the fictions +Of boyhood's years. + +As fire-flies fade +When the nights are damp-- +As meteors are quenched +In a stagnant swamp-- +Thus Charlemagne's camp, +Where the Paladins rally, +And the Diamond Valley, +And Wonderful Lamp, + +And all the wonders +Of Ganges and Nile, +And Haroun's rambles, +And Crusoe's isle, +And Princes who smile +On the Genii's daughters +'Neath the Orient waters +Full many a mile, + +And all that the pen +Of Fancy can write +Must vanish +In manhood's misty light-- +Squire and knight, +And damosels' glances, +Sunny romances +So pure and bright! + +These have vanished, +And what remains?-- +Life's budding garlands +Have turned to chains; +Its beams and rains +Feed but docks and thistles, +And sorrow whistles +O'er desert plains! + +The dove will fly +From a ruined nest, +Love will not dwell +In a troubled breast; +The heart has no zest +To sweeten life's dolour-- +If Love, the Consoler, +Be not its guest! + +The dream is over, +The vision has flown; +Dead leaves are lying +Where roses have blown; +Wither'd and strown +Are the hopes I cherished,-- +All hath perished +But grief alone! +</pre> +<p><a name="p011" id="p011"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE BRIDAL OF THE YEAR.</h3> +</center> +<pre> + Yes! the Summer is returning, + Warmer, brighter beams are burning + Golden mornings, purple evenings, + Come to glad the world once more. + Nature from her long sojourning + In the Winter-House of Mourning, + With the light of hope outpeeping, + From those eyes that late were weeping, + Cometh dancing o'er the waters + To our distant shore. + On the boughs the birds are singing, + Never idle, + For the bridal + Goes the frolic breeze a-ringing + All the green bells on the branches, + Which the soul of man doth hear; + Music-shaken, + It doth waken, + Half in hope, and half in fear, +And dons its festal garments for the Bridal of the Year! + + For the Year is sempiternal, + Never wintry, never vernal, + Still the same through all the changes + That our wondering eyes behold. + Spring is but his time of wooing-- + Summer but the sweet renewing + Of the vows he utters yearly, + Ever fondly and sincerely, + To the young bride that he weddeth, + When to heaven departs the old, + For it is her fate to perish, + Having brought him, + In the Autumn, + Children for his heart to cherish. + Summer, like a human mother, + Dies in bringing forth her young; + Sorrow blinds him, + Winter finds him + Childless, too, their graves among, +Till May returns once more, and the bridal hymns are sung. + + Thrice the great Betrothéd naming, + Thrice the mystic banns proclaiming, + February, March, and April, + Spread the tidings far and wide; + Thrice they questioned each new-comer, + "Know ye, why the sweet-faced Summer, + With her rich imperial dower, + Golden fruit and diamond flower, + And her pearly raindrop trinkets, + Should not be the green Earth's Bride?" + All things vocal spoke elated + (Nor the voiceless + Did rejoice less)-- + "Be the heavenly lovers mated!" + All the many murmuring voices + Of the music-breathing Spring, + Young birds twittering, + Streamlets glittering, + Insects on transparent wing-- +All hailed the Summer nuptials of their King! + + Now the rosy East gives warning, + 'Tis the wished-for nuptial morning. + Sweetest truant from Elysium, + Golden morning of the May! + All the guests are in their places-- + Lilies with pale, high-bred faces-- + Hawthorns in white wedding favours, + Scented with celestial savours-- + Daisies, like sweet country maidens, + Wear white scolloped frills to-day; + 'Neath her hat of straw the Peasant + Primrose sitteth, + Nor permitteth + Any of her kindred present, + Specially the milk-sweet cowslip, + E'er to leave the tranquil shade; + By the hedges, + Or the edges + Of some stream or grassy glade, +They look upon the scene half wistful, half afraid. + + Other guests, too, are invited, + From the alleys dimly lighted, + From the pestilential vapours + Of the over-peopled town-- + From the fever and the panic, + Comes the hard-worked, swarth mechanic-- + Comes the young wife pallor-stricken + At the cares that round her thicken-- + Comes the boy whose brow is wrinkled, + Ere his chin is clothed in down-- + And the foolish pleasure-seekers, + Nightly thinking + They are drinking + Life and joy from poisoned beakers, + Shudder at their midnight madness, + And the raving revel scorn: + All are treading + To the wedding + In the freshness of the morn, +And feel, perchance too late, the bliss of being born. + + And the Student leaves his poring, + And his venturous exploring + In the gold and gem-enfolding + Waters of the ancient lore-- + Seeking in its buried treasures, + Means for life's most common pleasures; + Neither vicious nor ambitious-- + Simple wants and simple wishes. + Ah! he finds the ancient learning + But the Spartan's iron ore; + Without value in an era + Far more golden + Than the olden-- + When the beautiful chimera, + Love, hath almost wholly faded + Even from the dreams of men. + From his prison + Newly risen-- + From his book-enchanted den-- +The stronger magic of the morning drives him forth again. + + And the Artist, too--the Gifted-- + He whose soul is heaven-ward lifted. + Till it drinketh inspiration + At the fountain of the skies; + He, within whose fond embraces + Start to life the marble graces; + Or, with God-like power presiding, + With the potent pencil gliding, + O'er the void chaotic canvas + Bids the fair creations rise! + And the quickened mass obeying + Heaves its mountains; + From its fountains + Sends the gentle streams a-straying + Through the vales, like Love's first feelings + Stealing o'er a maiden's heart; + The Creator-- + Imitator-- + From his easel forth doth start, +And from God's glorious Nature learns anew his Art! + + But who is this with tresses flowing, + Flashing eyes and forehead glowing, + From whose lips the thunder-music + Pealeth o'er the listening lands? + 'Tis the first and last of preachers-- + First and last of priestly teachers; + First and last of those appointed + In the ranks of the anointed; + With their songs like swords to sever + Tyranny and Falsehood's bands! + 'Tis the Poet--sum and total + Of the others, + With his brothers, + In his rich robes sacerdotal, + Singing with his golden psalter. + Comes he now to wed the twain-- + Truth and Beauty-- + Rest and Duty-- + Hope, and Fear, and Joy, and Pain, +Unite for weal or woe beneath the Poet's chain! + + And the shapes that follow after, + Some in tears and some in laughter, + Are they not the fairy phantoms + In his glorious vision seen? + Nymphs from shady forests wending, + Goddesses from heaven descending; + Three of Jove's divinest daughters, + Nine from Aganippe's waters; + And the passion-immolated, + Too fond-hearted Tyrian Queen, + Various shapes of one idea, + Memory-haunting, + Heart-enchanting, + Cythna, Genevieve, and Nea,[14] + Rosalind and all her sisters, + Born by Avon's sacred stream, + All the blooming + Shapes, illuming + The Eternal Pilgrim's dream,[15] +Follow the Poet's steps beneath the morning's beam. + + But the Bride--the Bride is coming! + Birds are singing, bees are humming; + Silent lakes amid the mountains + Look but cannot speak their mirth; + Streams go bounding in their gladness, + With a bacchanalian madness; + Trees bow down their heads in wonder, + Clouds of purple part asunder, + As the Maiden of the Morning + Leads the blushing Bride to Earth! + Bright as are the planets seven-- + With her glances + She advances, + For her azure eyes are Heaven! + And her robes are sunbeams woven, + And her beauteous bridesmaids are + Hopes and wishes-- + Dreams delicious-- + Joys from some serener star, +And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar. + + Now the mystic right is over-- + Blessings on the loved and lover! + Strike the tabours, clash the cymbals, + Let the notes of joy resound! + With the rosy apple-blossom, + Blushing like a maiden's bosom; + With all treasures from the meadows + Strew the consecrated ground; + Let the guests with vows fraternal + Pledge each other, + Sister, brother, + With the wine of Hope--the vernal + Vine-juice of Man's trustful heart: + Perseverance + And Forbearance, + Love and Labour, Song and Art, +Be this the cheerful creed wherewith the world may start. + + But whither the twain departed? + The United--the One-hearted-- + Whither from the bridal banquet + Have the Bride and Bridegroom flown? + Ah! their steps have led them quickly + Where the young leaves cluster thickly; + Blossomed boughs rain fragrance o'er them, + Greener grows the grass before them, + As they wander through the island, + Fond, delighted, and alone! + At their coming streams grow brighter, + Skies grow clearer, + Mountains nearer, + And the blue waves dancing lighter + From the far-off mighty ocean + Frolic on the glistening sand; + Jubilations, + Gratulations, + Breathe around, as hand-in-hand +They roam the Sutton's sea-washed shore, or soft Shanganah's strand. +</pre> +<p><sup>14</sup> Characters in Shelley, Coleridge, and Moore.</p> +<p><sup>15</sup> "The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame<br /> +      Over his living head, like Heaven, is bent,<br /> +      An early but enduring monument."<br /> +      Byron.      <i>(Shelley's + "Adonais.")</i></p> +<p><a name="p017" id="p017"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE VALE OF SHANGANAH.<sup>16</sup></h3> +</center> +<pre> +When I have knelt in the temple of Duty, +Worshipping honour and valour and beauty-- +When, like a brave man, in fearless resistance, +I have fought the good fight on the field of existence; +When a home I have won in the conflict of labour, +With truth for my armour and thought for my sabre, +Be that home a calm home where my old age may rally, +A home full of peace in this sweet pleasant valley! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna, + Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah! + +Fair is this isle--this dear child of the ocean-- +Nurtured with more than a mother's devotion; +For see! in what rich robes has nature arrayed her, +From the waves of the west to the cliffs of Ben Hader,[17] +By Glengariff's lone islets--Lough Lene's fairy water,[18] +So lovely was each, that then matchless I thought her; +But I feel, as I stray through each sweet-scented alley, +Less wild but more fair is this soft verdant valley! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + No wide-spreading prairie, no Indian savannah, + So dear to the eye as the Vale of Shanganah! + +How pleased, how delighted, the rapt eye reposes +On the picture of beauty this valley discloses, +From the margin of silver, whereon the blue water +Doth glance like the eyes of the ocean foam's daughter! +To where, with the red clouds of morning combining, +The tall "Golden Spears"[19] o'er the mountains are shining, +With the hue of their heather, as sunlight advances, +Like purple flags furled round the staffs of the lances! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + No lands far away by the swift Susquehannah, + So tranquil and fair as the Vale of Shanganah! + +But here, even here, the lone heart were benighted, +No beauty could reach it, if love did not light it; +'Tis this makes the earth, oh! what mortal could doubt it? +A garden with <i>it,</i> but a desert without it! +With the lov'd one, whose feelings instinctively teach her +That goodness of heart makes the beauty of feature. +How glad, through this vale, would I float down life's river, +Enjoying God's bounty, and blessing the Giver! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna, + Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah! +</pre> +<p><sup>16</sup> Lying to the south of Killiney-hill, near Dublin.</p> +<p><sup>17</sup> Hill of Howth.</p> +<p><sup>18</sup> Killarney.</p> +<p><sup>19</sup> The Sugarloaf Mountains, county Wicklow, were called + in Irish, "The Spears of Gold."</p> +<p><a name="p019" id="p019"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand +By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land; +In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime, +These gray old pillar temples, these conquerors of time! + +Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing and weak +The Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of the Greek, +And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires, +All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires! + +The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, +And the proud halls of the mighty and the calm homes of the just; +For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower, +Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower! + +But the grass grows again when in majesty and mirth, +On the wing of the spring, comes the Goddess of the Earth; +But for man in this world no springtide e'er returns +To the labours of his hands or the ashes of his urns! + +Two favourites hath Time--the pyramids of Nile, +And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle; +As the breeze o'er the seas, where the halcyon has its nest, +Thus Time o'er Egypt's tombs and the temples of the West! + +The names of their founders have vanished in the gloom, +Like the dry branch in the fire or the body in the tomb; +But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they cast-- +These temples of forgotten gods--these relics of the past! + +Around these walls have wandered the Briton and the Dane-- +The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of Spain-- +Phœnician and Milesian, and the plundering Norman Peers-- +And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of later years! + +How many different rites have these gray old temples known! +To the mind what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone! +What terror and what error, what gleams of love and truth, +Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth? + +Here blazed the sacred fire, and, when the sun was gone, +As a star from afar to the traveller it shone; +And the warm blood of the victim have these gray old temples drunk, +And the death-song of the druid and the matin of the monk. + +Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine, +And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine, +And the mitre shining brighter with its diamonds than the East, +And the crosier of the pontiff and the vestments of the priest. + +Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper bell, +Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's cell; +And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and good, +For the cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit stood. + +There may it stand for ever, while that symbol doth impart +To the mind one glorious vision, or one proud throb to the heart; +While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples last, +Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past! +</pre> +<p><a name="p021" id="p021"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>OVER THE SEA.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Sad eyes! why are ye steadfastly gazing + Over the sea? +Is it the flock of the ocean-shepherd grazing + Like lambs on the lea?-- +Is it the dawn on the orient billows blazing + Allureth ye? + +Sad heart! why art thou tremblingly beating-- + What troubleth thee? +There where the waves from the fathomless water come greeting, + Wild with their glee! +Or rush from the rocks, like a routed battalion retreating, + Over the sea! + +Sad feet! why are ye constantly straying + Down by the sea? +There, where the winds in the sandy harbour are playing + Child-like and free, +What is the charm, whose potent enchantment obeying, + There chaineth ye? + +O! sweet is the dawn, and bright are the colours it glows in, + Yet not to me! +To the beauty of God's bright creation my bosom is frozen! + Nought can I see, +Since she has departed--the dear one, the loved one, the chosen, + Over the sea! + +Pleasant it was when the billows did struggle and wrestle, + Pleasant to see! +Pleasant to climb the tall cliffs where the sea birds nestle, + When near to thee! +Nought can I now behold but the track of thy vessel + Over the sea! + +Long as a Lapland winter, which no pleasant sunlight cheereth, + The summer shall be +Vainly shall autumn be gay, in the rich robes it weareth, + Vainly for me! +No joy can I feel till the prow of thy vessel appeareth + Over the sea! + +Sweeter than summer, which tenderly, motherly bringeth + Flowers to the bee; +Sweeter than autumn, which bounteously, lovingly flingeth + Fruits on the tree, +Shall be winter, when homeward returning, thy swift vessel wingeth + Over the sea! +</pre> +<p><a name="p023" id="p023"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>OH! HAD I THE WINGS OF A BIRD.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Oh! had I the wings of a bird, + To soar through the blue, sunny sky, +By what breeze would my pinions be stirred? + To what beautiful land should I fly? +Would the gorgeous East allure, + With the light of its golden eyes, +Where the tall green palm, over isles of balm, + Waves with its feathery leaves? + Ah! no! no! no! + I heed not its tempting glare; + In vain should I roam from my island home, + For skies more fair! + +Should I seek a southern sea, + Italia's shore beside, +Where the clustering grape from tree to tree + Hangs in its rosy pride? +My truant heart, be still, + For I long have sighed to stray +Through the myrtle flowers of fair Italy's bowers. + By the shores of its southern bay. + But no! no! no! + Though bright be its sparkling seas, + I never would roam from my island home, + For charms like these! + +Should I seek that land so bright, + Where the Spanish maiden roves, +With a heart of love and an eye of light, + Through her native citron groves? +Oh! sweet would it be to rest + In the midst of the olive vales, +Where the orange blooms and the rose perfumes + The breath of the balmy gales! + But no! no! no!-- + Though sweet be its wooing air, + I never would roam from my island home, + To scenes though fair! + +Should I pass from pole to pole? + Should I seek the western skies, +Where the giant rivers roll, + And the mighty mountains rise? +Or those treacherous isles that lie + In the midst of the sunny deeps, +Where the cocoa stands on the glistening sands, + And the dread tornado sweeps! + Ah! no! no! no! + They have no charms for me; + I never would roam from my island home, + Though poor it be! + +Poor!--oh! 'tis rich in all + That flows from Nature's hand; +Rich in the emerald wall + That guards its emerald land! +Are Italy's fields more green? + Do they teem with a richer store +Than the bright green breast of the Isle of the West, + And its wild, luxuriant shore? + Ah! no! no! no! + Upon it heaven doth smile; + Oh, I never would roam from my native home, + My own dear isle! +</pre> +<p><a name="p025" id="p025"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>LOVE'S LANGUAGE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Need I say how much I love thee?-- + Need my weak words tell, +That I prize but heaven above thee, + Earth not half so well? +If this truth has failed to move thee, + Hope away must flee; +If thou dost not feel I love thee, + Vain my words would be! + +Need I say how long I've sought thee-- + Need my words declare, +Dearest, that I long have thought thee + Good and wise and fair? +If no sigh this truth has brought thee, + Woe, alas! to me; +Where thy own heart has not taught thee, + Vain my words would be! + +Need I say when others wooed thee, + How my breast did pine, +Lest some fond heart that pursued thee + Dearer were than mine? +If no pity then came to thee, + Mixed with love for me, +Vainly would my words imbue thee, + Vain my words would be! + +Love's best language is unspoken, + Yet how simply known; +Eloquent is every token, + Look, and touch, and tone. +If thy heart hath not awoken, + If not yet on thee +Love's sweet silent light hath broken, + Vain my words would be! + +Yet, in words of truest meaning, + Simple, fond, and few; +By the wild waves intervening, + Dearest, I love you! +Vain the hopes my heart is gleaning, + If, long since to thee, +My fond heart required unscreening, + Vain my words will be! +</pre> +<p><a name="p026" id="p026"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE FIRESIDE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +I have tasted all life's pleasures, I have snatched at all its joys, +The dance's merry measures and the revel's festive noise; +Though wit flashed bright the live-long night, and flowed the ruby tide, +I sighed for thee, I sighed for thee, my own fireside! + +In boyhood's dreams I wandered far across the ocean's breast, +In search of some bright earthly star, some happy isle of rest; +I little thought the bliss I sought in roaming far and wide +Was sweetly centred all in thee, my own fireside! + +How sweet to turn at evening's close from all our cares away, +And end in calm, serene repose, the swiftly passing day! +The pleasant books, the smiling looks of sister or of bride, +All fairy ground doth make around one's own fireside! + +"My Lord" would never condescend to honour my poor hearth; +"His Grace" would scorn a host or friend of mere plebeian birth; +And yet the lords of human kind, whom man has deified, +For ever meet in converse sweet around my fireside! + +The poet sings his deathless songs, the sage his lore repeats, +The patriot tells his country's wrongs, the chief his warlike feats; +Though far away may be their clay, and gone their earthly pride, +Each god-like mind in books enshrined still haunts my fireside! + +Oh, let me glance a moment through the coming crowd of years, +Their triumphs or their failures, their sunshine or their tears; +How poor or great may be my fate, I care not what betide, +So peace and love but hallow thee, my own fireside! + +Still let me hold the vision close, and closer to my sight; +Still, still, in hopes elysian, let my spirit wing its flight; +Still let me dream, life's shadowy stream may yield from out its tide, +A mind at rest, a tranquil breast, a quiet fireside! +</pre> +<p><a name="p028" id="p028"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE BANISHED SPIRIT'S SONG.<sup>20</sup></h3> +</center> +<pre> +Beautiful clime, where I've dwelt so long, +In mirth and music, in gladness and song! +Fairer than aught upon earth art thou-- +Beautiful clime, must I leave thee now? + +No more shall I join the circle bright +Of my sister nymphs, when they dance at night +In their grottos cool and their pearly halls, +When the glowworm hangs on the ivy walls! + +No more shall I glide o'er the waters blue, +With a crimson shell for my light canoe, +Or a rose-leaf plucked from the neighbouring trees, +Piloted o'er by the flower-fed breeze! + +Oh! must I leave those spicy gales, +Those purple hills and those flowery vales? +Where the earth is strewed with pansy and rose, +And the golden fruit of the orange grows! + +Oh! must I leave this region fair, +For a world of toil and a life of care? +In its dreary paths how long must I roam, +Far away from my fairy home? + +The song of birds and the hum of bees, +And the breath of flowers, are on the breeze; +The purple plum and the cone-like pear, +Drooping, hang in the rosy air! + +The fountains scatter their pearly rain +On the thirsty flowers and the ripening grain; +The insects sport in the sunny beam, +And the golden fish in the laughing stream. + +The Naiads dance by the river's edge, +On the low, soft moss and the bending sedge; +Wood-nymphs and satyrs and graceful fawns +Sport in the woods, on the grassy lawns! + +The slanting sunbeams tip with gold +The emerald leaves in the forests old-- +But I must away from this fairy scene, +Those leafy woods and those valleys green! +</pre> +<p><sup>20</sup> Written in early youth.</p> +<p><a name="p029" id="p029"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>REMEMBRANCE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +With that pleasant smile thou wearest, +Thou art gazing on the fairest + Wonders of the earth and sea: +Do thou not, in all thy seeing, +Lose the mem'ry of one being + Who at home doth think of thee. + +In the capital of nations, +Sun of all earth's constellations, + Thou art roaming glad and free: +Do thou not, in all thy roving, +Lose the mem'ry of one loving + Heart at home that beats for thee. + +Strange eyes around thee glisten, +To a strange tongue thou dost listen, + Strangers bend the suppliant knee: +Do thou not, for all their seeming +Truth, forget the constant beaming + Eyes at home that watch for thee. + +Stately palaces surround thee, +Royal parks and gardens bound thee-- + Gardens of the <i>Fleur de Lis:</i> +Do thou not, for all their splendour, +Quite forget the humble, tender + Thoughts at home, that turn to thee. + +When, at length of absence weary, +When the year grows sad and dreary, + And an east wind sweeps the sea; +Ere the days of dark November, +Homeward turn, and then remember + Hearts at home that pine for thee! +</pre> +<p><a name="p030" id="p030"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE CLAN OF MAC CAURA.<sup>21</sup></h3> +</center> +<pre> +Oh! bright are the names of the chieftains and sages, +That shine like the stars through the darkness of ages, +Whose deeds are inscribed on the pages of story, +There for ever to live in the sunshine of glory, +Heroes of history, phantoms of fable, +Charlemagne's champions, and Arthur's Round Table; +Oh! but they all a new lustre could borrow +From the glory that hangs round the name of MacCaura! + +Thy waves, Manzanares, wash many a shrine, +And proud are the castles that frown o'er the Rhine, +And stately the mansions whose pinnacles glance +Through the elms of Old England and vineyards of France; +Many have fallen, and many will fall, +Good men and brave men have dwelt in them all, +But as good and as brave men, in gladness and sorrow, +Have dwelt in the halls of the princely MacCaura! + +Montmorency, Medina, unheard was thy rank +By the dark-eyed Iberian and light-hearted Frank, +And your ancestors wandered, obscure and unknown, +By the smooth Guadalquiver and sunny Garonne. +Ere Venice had wedded the sea, or enrolled +The name of a Doge in her proud "Book of Gold;" +When her glory was all to come on like the morrow, +There were the chieftains and kings of the clan of MacCaura! + +Proud should thy heart beat, descendant of Heber,[22] +Lofty thy head as the shrines of the Guebre,[23] +Like them are the halls of thy forefathers shattered, +Like theirs is the wealth of thy palaces scattered. +Their fire is extinguished--thy banner long furled-- +But how proud were ye both in the dawn of the world! +And should both fade away, oh! what heart would not sorrow +O'er the towers of the Guebre--the name of MacCaura! + +What a moment of glory to cherish and dream on, +When far o'er the sea came the ships of Heremon, +With Heber, and Ir, and the Spanish patricians, +To free Inisfail from the spells of magicians.[24] +Oh! reason had these for their quaking and pallor, +For what magic can equal the strong sword of valour? +Better than spells are the axe and the arrow, +When wielded or flung by the hand of MacCaura! + +From that hour a MacCaura had reigned in his pride +O'er Desmond's green valleys and rivers so wide, +From thy waters, Lismore, to the torrents and rills +That are leaping for ever down Brandon's brown hills; +The billows of Bantry, the meadows of Bear, +The wilds of Evaugh, and the groves of Glancare, +From the Shannon's soft shores to the banks of the Barrow, +All owned the proud sway of the princely MacCaura! + +In the house of Miodchuart,[25] by princes surrounded, +How noble his step when the trumpet was sounded, +And his clansmen bore proudly his broad shield before him, +And hung it on high in that bright palace o'er him; +On the left of the monarch the chieftain was seated, +And happy was he whom his proud glances greeted: +'Mid monarchs and chiefs at the great Fes of Tara, +Oh! none was to rival the princely MacCaura! + +To the halls of the Red Branch,[26] when the conquest was o'er, +The champions their rich spoils of victory bore, +And the sword of the Briton, the shield of the Dane, +Flashed bright as the sun on the walls of Eamhain; +There Dathy and Niall bore trophies of war, +From the peaks of the Alps and the waves of Loire; +But no knight ever bore from the hills of Ivaragh +The breast-plate or axe of a conquered MacCaura! + +In chasing the red deer what step was the fleetest?-- +In singing the love song what voice was the sweetest?-- +What breast was the foremost in courting the danger?-- +What door was the widest to shelter the stranger?-- +In friendship the truest, in battle the bravest, +In revel the gayest, in council the gravest?-- +A hunter to-day and a victor to-morrow?-- +Oh! who but a chief of the princely MacCaura! + +But, oh! proud MacCaura, what anguish to touch on +The fatal stain of thy princely escutcheon; +In thy story's bright garden the one spot of bleakness, +Through ages of valour the one hour of weakness! +Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred and royal-- +Thou to kneel to the Norman and swear to be loyal! +Oh! a long night of horror, and outrage, and sorrow, +Have we wept for thy treason, base Diarmid MacCaura![27] + +Oh! why ere you thus to the foreigner pandered, +Did you not bravely call round your emerald standard, +The chiefs of your house of Lough Lene and Clan Awley +O'Donogh, MacPatrick, O'Driscoll, MacAwley, +O'Sullivan More, from the towers of Dunkerron, +And O'Mahon, the chieftain of green Ardinterran? +As the sling sends the stone or the bent bow the arrow, +Every chief would have come at the call of MacCaura. + +Soon, soon didst thou pay for that error in woe, +Thy life to the Butler, thy crown to the foe, +Thy castles dismantled, and strewn on the sod, +And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys of God! +No more in thy halls is the wayfarer fed, +Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft heather spread, +Nor the <i>clairsech's</i> sweet notes, now in mirth, now in sorrow, +All, all have gone by, but the name of MacCaura! + +MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by, +But its name cannot fade, and its fame cannot die, +Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves, shine +Around no green forests or castles of thine-- +Though the shrines that you founded no incense doth hallow, +Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Allo, +One treasure thou keepest, one hope for the morrow-- +True hearts yet beat of the clan of MacCaura! +</pre> +<p><sup>21</sup> MacCarthaig, or MacCarthy.</p> +<p><sup>22</sup> The eldest son of Milesius, King of Spain, in the legendary +history of Ireland.</p> +<p><sup>23</sup> The Round Towers.</p> +<p><sup>24</sup> The Tuatha Dedannans, so called, says Keating, from their +skill in necromancy, for which some were so famous as to be called gods.</p> +<p><sup>25</sup> See Keating's "History of Ireland" and Petrie's "Tara."</p> +<p><sup>26</sup> In the palace of Emania, in Ulster.</p> +<p><sup>27</sup> Diarmid MacCaura, King of Desmond, and Daniel O'Brien, King of +Thomond, were the first of the Irish princes to swear fealty to Henry II.</p> + +<p><a name="p034" id="p034"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE WINDOW.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +At my window, late and early, + In the sunshine and the rain, +When the jocund beams of morning +Come to wake me from my napping, +With their golden fingers tapping + At my window pane: +From my troubled slumbers flitting, + From the dreamings fond and vain, +From the fever intermitting, +Up I start, and take my sitting + At my window pane:-- + +Through the morning, through the noontide, + Fettered by a diamond chain, +Through the early hours of evening, +When the stars begin to tremble, +As their shining ranks assemble + O'er the azure plain: +When the thousand lamps are blazing + Through the street and lane-- +Mimic stars of man's upraising-- +Still I linger, fondly gazing + From my window pane! + +For, amid the crowds slow passing, + Surging like the main, +Like a sunbeam among shadows, +Through the storm-swept cloudy masses, +Sometimes one bright being passes + 'Neath my window pane: +Thus a moment's joy I borrow + From a day of pain. +See, she comes! but--bitter sorrow! +Not until the slow to-morrow, + Will she come again. +</pre> +<p><a name="p035" id="p035"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>AUTUMN FEARS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The weary, dreary, dripping rain, + From morn till night, from night till morn, +Along the hills and o'er the plain, + Strikes down the green and yellow corn; +The flood lies deep upon the ground, + No ripening heat the cold sun yields, +And rank and rotting lies around + The glory of the summer fields! + +How full of fears, how racked with pain, + How torn with care the heart must be, +Of him who sees his golden grain + Laid prostrate thus o'er lawn and lea; +For all that nature doth desire, + All that the shivering mortal shields, +The Christmas fare, the winter's fire, + All comes from out the summer fields. + +I too have strayed in pleasing toil + Along youth's and fertile meads; +I too within Hope's genial soil + Have, trusting, placed Love's golden seeds; +I too have feared the chilling dew, + The heavy rain when thunder pealed, +Lest Fate might blight the flower that grew + For me in Hope's green summer field. + +Ah! who can paint that beauteous flower, + Thus nourished by celestial dew, +Thus growing fairer, hour by hour, + Delighting more, the more it grew; +Bright'ning, not burdening the ground, + Nor proud with inward worth concealed, +But scattering all its fragrance round + Its own sweet sphere, its summer field! + +At morn the gentle flower awoke, + And raised its happy face to God; +At evening, when the starlight broke, + It bending sought the dewy sod; +And thus at morn, and thus at even, + In fragrant sighs its heart revealed, +Thus seeking heaven, and making heaven + Within its own sweet summer field! + +Oh! joy beyond all human joy! + Oh! bliss beyond all earthly bliss! +If pitying Fate will not destroy + My hopes of such a flower as this! +How happy, fond, and heaven-possest, + My heart will be to tend and shield, +And guard upon my grateful breast + The pride of that sweet summer field! +</pre> +<p><a name="p036" id="p036"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>FATAL GIFTS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The poet's heart is a fatal boon, + And fatal his wondrous eye, + And the delicate ear, + So quick to hear, + Over the earth and sky, +Creation's mystic tune! +Soon, soon, but not too soon, +Does that ear grow deaf and that eye grow dim, +And nature becometh a waste for him, + Whom, born for another sphere, + Misery hath shipwrecked here! + +For what availeth his sensitive heart + For the struggle and stormy strife + That the mariner-man, + Since the world began + Has braved on the sea of life? +With fearful wonder his eye doth start, +When it should be fixed on the outspread chart +That pointeth the way to golden shores-- +Rent are his sails and broken his oars, + And he sinks without hope or plan, + With his floating caravan. + +And love, that should be his strength and stay, + Becometh his bane full soon, + Like flowers that are born + Of the beams at morn, + But die of their heat ere noon. +Far better the heart were the sterile clay +Where the shining sands of the desert play, +And where never the perishing flow'ret gleams +Than the heart that is fed with its wither'd dreams, + And whose love is repelled with scorn, + Like the bee by the rose's thorn. +</pre> +<p><a name="p037" id="p037"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>SWEET MAY.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The summer is come!--the summer is come! + With its flowers and its branches green, +Where the young birds chirp on the blossoming boughs, + And the sunlight struggles between: +And, like children, over the earth and sky + The flowers and the light clouds play; +But never before to my heart or eye + Came there ever so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + +Oh! many a time have I wandered out + In the youth of the opening year, +When Nature's face was fair to my eye, + And her voice was sweet to my ear! +When I numbered the daisies, so few and shy, + That I met in my lonely way; +But never before to my heart or eye, + Came there ever so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + +If the flowers delayed, or the beams were cold, + Or the blossoming trees were bare, +I had but to look in the poet's book, + For the summer is always there! +But the sunny page I now put by, + And joy in the darkest day! +For never before to my heart or eye, + Came there ever so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + +For, ah! the belovéd at length has come, + Like the breath of May from afar; +And my heart is lit with gentle eyes, + As the heavens by the evening star. +'Tis this that brightens the darkest sky, + And lengthens the faintest ray, +And makes me feel that to the heart or eye + There was never so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! +</pre> +<p><a name="p039" id="p039"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>FERDIAH;<sup>28</sup></h3> +<h5>OR, THE FIGHT AT THE FORD.</h5> +<p><i>An Episode from the Ancient Irish Epic Romance,<br /> +"The Tain Bó Cuailgné; or, the Cattle Prey of Cuailgné."</i></p> +</center> +<p>["The <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné</i>" says the late Professor O'Curry, +"is to Irish what the Argonautic Expedition, or the Seven +against Thebes, is to Grecian history."  For an account of this, +perhaps the earliest epic romance of Western Europe, see the +Professor's "Lectures on the Manuscript Materials of Irish +History."</p> +<p>The Fight of Cuchullin with Ferdiah took place in the +modern county of Louth, at the ford of Ardee, which still +preserves the name of the departed champion, Ardee being the +softened form of <i>Ath Ferdiah,</i> or Ferdiah's Ford.</p> +<p>The circumstances under which this famous combat took +place are thus succinctly mentioned by O'Curry, in his description +of the <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné:—</i></p> +<p>"Cuchulainn confronts the invaders of his province, demands +single combat, and conjures his opponents by the laws +of Irish chivalry (the <i>Fir comhlainn</i>) not to advance farther +until they had conquered <i>him.</i>  This demand, in accordance +with the Irish laws of warfare, is granted; and then the +whole contest is resolved into a succession of single combats, +in each of which Cuchulainn was victorious."—"Lectures," p. +37.</p> +<p>The original Irish text of this episode, with a literal translation, +on which the present metrical version is founded, may +be consulted in the appendix to the second series of the +Lectures by O'Curry, vol. ii., p. 413.</p> +<p>The date assigned to the famous expedition of the <i>Tain Bó +Cuailgné,</i> and consequently to the episode which forms the +subject of the present poem, is the close of the century immediately +preceding the commencement of the Christian era.  +This will account for the complete absence of all Christian +allusions, so remarkable throughout the poem: an additional +proof, if that were required, of its extreme antiquity.]</p> +<pre> +Cuchullin the great chief had pitched his tent, +From Samhain[29] time, till now 'twas budding spring, +Fast by the Ford, and held the land at bay. +All Erin, save the fragment that he led, +His sword held back, nor dared a man to cross +The rippling Ford without Cuchullin's leave: +Chief after chief had fallen in the attempt; +And now the men of Erin through the night +Asked in dismay, "Oh! who shall be the next +To face the northern hound[30] and free the Ford?" +"Let it now be," with one accord they cried, +"Ferdiah, son of Dâman Dáré's son, +Of Domnann[31] lord, and all its warrior men." +The chiefs thus fated now to meet as foes +In early life were friends--had both been taught +All feats of arms by the same skilful hands +In Scatha's[32] school beneath the peaks of Skye, +Which still preserve Cuchullin's glorious name. +One feat of arms alone Cuchullin knew +Ferdiah knew not of--the fatal cast-- +The dread expanding force of the gaebulg[33] +Flung from the foot resistless on the foe. +But, on the other hand, Ferdiah wore +A skin-protecting suit of flashing steel[34] +Surpassing all in Erin known till then. +At length the council closed, and to the chief +Heralds were sent to tell them that the choice +That night had fallen on him; but he within +His tent retired, received them not, nor went. +For well he knew the purport of their suit +Was this--that he should fight beside the Ford +His former fellow-pupil and his friend. +Then Mave,[35] the queen, her powerful druids sent, +Armed not alone with satire's scorpion stings, +But with the magic power even on the face, +By their malevolent taunts and biting sneers, +To raise three blistering blots[36] that typified +Disgrace, dishonour, and a coward's shame, +Which with their mortal venom him would kill, +Or on the hour, or ere nine days had sped, +If he declined the combat, and refused +Upon the instant to come forth with them, +And so, for honour's sake, Ferdiah came. +For he preferred to die a warrior's death, +Pierced to the heart by a proud foeman's spear, +Than by the serpent sting of slanderous tongues-- +By satire and abuse, and foul reproach. +When to the court he came, where the great queen +Held revel, he received all due respect: +The sweet intoxicating cup went round, +And soon Ferdiah felt the power of wine. +Great were the rich rewards then promised him +For going forth to battle with the Hound: +A chariot worth seven cumals four times told,[37] +The outfit then of twelve well-chosen men +Made of more colours than the rainbow knows, +His own broad plains of level fair Magh Aie,[38] +To him and his assured till time was o'er +Free of all tribute, without fee or fine; +The golden brooch, too, from the queen's own cloak, +And, above all, fair Finavair[39] for wife. +But doubtful was Ferdiah of the queen, +And half excited by the fiery cup, +And half distrustful, knowing wily Mave, +He asked for more assurance of her faith. +Then she to him, in rhythmic rise of song, +And he in measured ranns to her replied. + +MAVE.[40] + +A rich reward of golden rings + I'll give to thee, Ferdiah fair, +The forest, where the wild bird sings, + the broad green plain, with me thou'lt share; +Thy children and thy children's seed, + for ever, until time is o'er, +Shall be from every service freed + within the sea-surrounding shore. +Oh, Daman's son, Ferdiah fair, + oh, champion of the wounds renowned, +For thou a charmèd life dost bear, + since ever by the victories crowned, +Oh! why the proffered gifts decline, + oh! why reject the nobler fame, +Which many an arm less brave than thine, + which many a heart less bold, would claim? + +FERDIAH. + +Without a guarantee, O queen! + without assurance made most sure, +Thy grassy plains, thy woodlands green, + thy golden rings are but a lure. +The champion's place is not for me + until thou art most firmly bound, +For dreadful will the battle be + between me and Emania's Hound. +For such is Chuland's name, + O queen, and such is Chuland's nature, too, +The noble Hound, the Hound of fame, + the noble heart to dare and do, +The fearful fangs that never yield, + the agile spring so swift and light: +Ah! dread the fortune of the field! + ah! fierce will be the impending fight! + +MAVE. + +I'll give a champion's guarantee, + and with thee here a compact make, +That in the assemblies thou shalt be + no longer bound thy place to take; +Rich silver-bitted bridles fair-- + for such each noble neck demands-- +And gallant steeds that paw the air, + shall all be given into thy hands. +For thou, Ferdiah, art indeed + a truly brave and valorous man, +The first of all the chiefs I lead, + the foremost hero in the van; +My chosen champion now thou art, + my dearest friend henceforth thou'lt be, +The very closest to my heart, + from every toll and tribute free. + +FERDIAH. + +Without securities, I say, + united with thy royal word, +I will not go, when breaks the day, + to seek the combat at the Ford. +That contest, while time runs its course, + and fame records what ne'er should die, +Shall live for ever in full force, + until the judgment day draws nigh. +I will not go, though death ensue, + though thou through some demoniac rite, +Even as thy druid sorcerers do, + canst kill me with thy words of might: +I will not go the Ford to free, + until, O queen! thou here dost swear +By sun and moon,[41] by land and sea, + by all the powers of earth and air. + +MAVE. + +Thou shalt have all; do <i>thou</i> decide. + I'll give thee an unbounded claim; +Until thy doubts are satisfied, + oh! bind us by each sacred name;-- +Bind us upon the hands of kings, + upon the hands of princes bind; +Bind us by every act that brings + assurance to the doubting mind. +Ask what thou wilt, and do not fear + that what thou wouldst cannot be wrought; +Ask what thou wilt, there standeth here + one who will ne'er refuse thee aught; +Ask what thou wilt, thy wildest wish + be certain thou shalt have this night, +For well I know that thou wilt kill this + man who meets thee in the fight. + +FERDIAH. + +I will have six securities, + no less will I accept from thee; +Be some our country's deities, + the lords of earth, and sky, and sea; +Be some thy dearest ones, O queen! + the darlings of thy heart and eye, +Before my fatal fall is seen + to-morrow, when the hosts draw nigh. +Do this, and though I lose my fame-- + do this, and though my life I lose, +The glorious championship I'll claim, + the glorious risk will not refuse. +On, on, in equal strength and might + shall I advance, O queenly Mave, +And Uladh's hero meet in fight, + and battle with Cuchullin brave. + +MAVE. + +Though Domnal[42] it should be, the sun, + swift-speeding in his fiery car; +Though Niaman's[43] dread name be one, + the consort of the God of War; +These, even these I'll give, though hard + to lure them from their realms serene, +For though they list to lowliest bard,[44] + they may be deaf unto a queen. +Bind it on Morand, if thou wilt, + to make assurance doubly sure; +Bind it, nor dream that dream of guilt + that such a pact will not endure. +By spirits of the wave and wind, + by every spell, by every art, +Bind Carpri Min of Manand, + bind my sons, the darlings of my heart. + +FERDIAH. + +O Mave! with venom of deceit + that adder tongue of thine o'erflows, +Nor is thy temper over-sweet, + as well thine earlier consort knows. +Thou'rt truly worthy of thy fame + for boastful speech and lust of power, +And well dost thou deserve thy name-- + the Brachail of Rathcroghan's tower.[45] +Thy words are fair and soft, O queen! + but still I crave one further proof-- +Give me the scarf of silken sheen, + give me the speckled satin woof, +Give from thy cloak's empurpled fold + the golden brooch so fair to see, +And when the glorious gift I hold, + for ever am I bound to thee. + +MAVE. + +Oh! art thou not my chosen chief, + my foremost champion, sure to win, +My tower, my fortress of relief, + to whom I give this twisted pin? +These, and a thousand gifts more rare, + the treasures of the earth and sea, +Jewels a queen herself might wear, + my grateful hands will give to thee. +And when at length beneath thy sword + the Hound of Ulster shall lie low, +When thou hast ope'd the long-locked Ford, + and let the unguarded water flow, +Then shall I give my daughter's hand, + then my own child shall be thy bride-- +She, the fair daughter of the land + where western Elgga's[46] waters glide. + +And thus did Mave Ferdiah bind to fight +Six chosen champions on the morrow morn, +Or combat with Cuchullin all alone, +Whichever might to him the easier seem. +And he, by the gods' names and by her sons, +Bound <i>her</i> the promise she had made to keep, +The rich reward to pay to him in full, +If by his hand Cuchullin should be slain. +For Fergus, young Cuchullin's early friend, +The steeds that night were harnessed, and he flew +Swift in his chariot to the hero's tent. +"Glad am I at thy coming, O my friend!" +Cuchullin said: "My pupil, I accept +With joy thy welcome," Fergus quick replied: +"But what I come for is to give thee news +Of him who here will fight thee in the morn." +"I listen," said Cuchullin, "do thou speak." +"Thine own companion is it, thine own peer, +Thy rival in all daring feats of arms, +Ferdiah, son of Dáman, Daré's son, +Of Domnand lord and all its warrior men." +"Be sure of this," Cuchullin made reply, +"That never wish of mine it could have been +A friend should thus come forth with me to fight." +"It therefore doth behove thee now, my son," +Fergus replied, "to be upon thy guard, +Prepared at every point; for not like those +Who hitherto have come to fight with thee +Upon the <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné,</i> is the chief, +Ferdiah, son of Dáman, Daré's son." +"Here I have been," Cuchullin proudly said, +"From Samhain up to Imbule--from the first +Of winter days even to the first of spring-- +Holding the four great provinces in check +That make up Erin, not one foot have I +Yielded to any man in all that time, +Nor even to him shall I a foot give way." +And thus the parley went: first Fergus spoke, +Cuchullin then to him in turn replied: + +FERGUS. + +Time is it, O Cuchullin, to arise, + Time for the fearful combat to prepare; +For hither with the anger in his eyes, + To fight thee comes Ferdiah called the Fair. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Here I have been, nor has the task been light, + Holding all Erin's warriors at bay: +No foot of ground have I in recreant flight + Yielded to any man or shunned the fray. + +FERGUS. + +When roused to rage, resistless in his might, + Fearless the man is, for his sword ne'er fails: +A skin-protecting coat of armour bright + He wears, 'gainst which no valour e'er prevails. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Oh! brave in arms, my Fergus, say not so, + Urge not thy story further on the night:-- +On any friend, or facing any foe + I never was behind him in the fight. + +FERGUS. + +Brave is the man, I say, in battles fierce, + Him it will not be easy to subdue, +Swords cut him not, nor can the sharp spear pierce, + Strong as a hundred men to dare and do. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Well, should we chance to meet beside the Ford, + I and this chief whose valour ne'er has failed, +Story shall tell the fortune of each sword, + And who succumbed and who it was prevailed. + +FERGUS. + +Ah! liefer than a royal recompense + To me it were, O champion of the sword, +That thine it were to carry eastward hence + The proud Ferdiah's purple from the Ford. + +CUCHULLIN. + +I pledge my word, I vow, and not in vain, + Though in the combat we may be as one, +That it is I who shall the victory gain + Over the son of Dáman, Daré's son. + +FERGUS. + +'Twas I that gathered eastward all the bands, + Revenging the foul wrong upon me wrought +By the Ultonians. Hither from their lands + The chiefs, the battle-warriors I have brought. + +CUCHULLIN. + +If Conor's royal strength had not decayed, + Hard would have been the strife on either side: +Mave of the Plain of Champions had not made + A foray then of so much boastful pride. + +FERGUS. + +To-day awaits thy hand a greater deed, + To battle with Ferdiah, Dáman's son. +Hard, bloody weapons with sharp points thou'lt need, + Cuchullin, ere the victory be won. + +Then Fergus to the court and camp went back, +While to his people and his tent repaired +Ferdiah, and he told them of the pact +Made that same night between him and the queen. + +The dwellers in Ferdiah's tent that night +Were scant of comfort, a foreboding fear +Fell on their spirits and their hearts weighed down; +Because they knew in whatsoever fight +The mighty chiefs, the hundred-slaying two +Met face to face, that one of them must fall, +Or both, perhaps, or if but only one, +Certain were they it would their own lord be, +Since on the <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné,</i> it was plain +That no one with Cuchullin could contend. + + Nor was their chief less troubled; but at first +The fumes of the late revel overpowered +His senses, and he slept a heavy sleep. +Later he woke, the intoxicating steam +Had left his brain, and now in sober calm +All the anxieties of the impending fight +Pressed on his soul and made him grave.[47] He rose +From off his couch, and bade his charioteer +Harness his pawing horses to the car. +The boy would fain persuade his lord to stay, +Because he loved his master, and he felt +He went but to his death; but he repelled +The youth's advice, and spoke to him these words-- +"Oh! cease, my servant. I will not be turned +By any youth from what I have resolved." +And thus in speech and answer spoke the two-- + +FERDIAH. + +Let us go to this challenge, + Let us fly to the Ford, +When the raven shall croak + O'er my blood-dripping sword. +Oh, woe for Cuchullin! + That sword will be red; +Oh, woe! for to-morrow + The hero lies dead. + +CHARIOTEER. + +Thy words are not gentle, + Yet rest where thou art, +'Twill be dreadful to meet, + And distressful to part. +The champion of Ulster! + Oh! think what a foe! +In that meeting there's grief, + In that journey there's woe! + +FERDIAH. + +Thy counsel is craven, + Thy caution I slight, +No brave-hearted champion + Should shrink from the fight. +The blood I inherit + Doth prompt me to do-- +Let us go to the challenge, + To the Ford let us go! + +Then were the horses of Ferdiah yoked +Unto the chariot, and he rode full speed +Unto the Ford of battle, and the day +Began to break, and all the east grew red. + + Beside the Ford he halted. "Good, my friend," +He said unto his servant, "Spread for me +The skins and cushions of my chariot here +Beneath me, that I may a full deep sleep +Enjoy before the hour of fight arrives; +For in the latter portion of the night +I slept not, thinking of the fight to come." +Unharnessed were the horses, and the boy +Spread out the cushions and the chariot's skins, +And heavy sleep fell on Ferdiah's lids. + + Now of Cuchullin will I speak. He rose +Not until day with all its light had come, +In order that the men of Erin ne'er +Should say of him that it was fear or dread +That made him from a restless couch arise. +When in the fulness of its light at length +Shone forth the day, he bade his charioteer +Harness his horses and his chariot yoke. +"Harness my horses, good, my servant," said +Cuchullin, "and my chariot yoke for me, +For lo! an early-rising champion comes +To meet us here beside the Ford to-day-- +Ferdiah, son of Daman, Daré's son." +"My lord, the steeds are ready to thy hand; +Thy chariot stands here yoked, do thou step in; +The noble car will not disgrace its lord." + + Into the chariot, then, the dextrous, bold, +Red-sworded, battle-winning hero sprang +Cuchullin, son of Sualtam, at a bound. +Invisible Bocanachs and Bananachs, +And Geniti Glindi[48] shouted round the car, +And demons of the earth and of the air. +For thus the Tuatha de Danaans used +By sorceries to raise those fearful cries +Around him, that the terror and the fear +Of him should be the greater, as he swept +On with his staff of spirits to the war. + + Soon was it when Ferdiah's charioteer +Heard the approaching clamour and the shout, +The rattle and the clatter, and the roar, +The whistle, and the thunder, and the tramp, +The clanking discord of the missive shields, +The clang of swords, the hissing sound of spears, +The tinkling of the helmet, the sharp crash +Of armour and of arms, the straining ropes, +The dangling bucklers, the resounding wheels, +The creaking chariot, and the proud approach +Of the triumphant champion of the Ford. + Clutching his master's robe, the charioteer +Cried out, "Ferdiah, rise! for lo, thy foes +Are on thee!" Then the Spirit of Insight fell +Prophetic on the youth, and thus he sang. + +CHARIOTEER. + +I hear the rushing of a car, + Near and more near its proud wheels run +A chariot for the God of War + Bursts--as from clouds the sun! +Over Bregg-Ross it speeds along, + Hark! its thunders peal afar! +Oh! its steeds are swift and strong, + And the Victories guide that car. + +The Hound of Ulster shaketh the reins, + And white with foam is each courser's mouth; +The Hawk of Ulster swoops o'er the plains + To his quarry here in the south. +Like wintry storm that warrior's form, + Slaughter and Death beside him rush; +The groaning air is dark and warm, + And the low clouds bleed and blush.[49] + +Oh, woe to him that is here on the hill, + Who is here on the hillock awaiting the Hound; +Last year it was in a vision of ill + I saw this sight and I heard this sound. +Methought Emania's Hound drew nigh, + Methought the Hound of Battle drew near, +I heard his steps and I saw his eye, + And again I see and I hear. + +Then answer made Ferdiah in this wise: +"Why dost thou chafe me, talking of this man? +For thou hast never ceased to sing his praise +Since from his home he came. Thou surely art +Not without wage for this: but nathless know +Ailill and Mave have both foretold--by me +This man shall fall, shall fall for a reward +Just as the deed: This day he shall be slain, +For it is fated that I free the Ford. +'Tis time for the relief."--And thus they spake: + +FERDIAH. + +Yes, it is time for the relief; + Be silent then, nor speak his praise, +For prophecy forebodes this chief + Shall pass not the predestined days; +Does fate for this forego its claim, + That Cuailgné's champion here should come +In all his pride and pomp of fame?-- + Be sure he comes but to his doom. + +CHARIOTEER. + +If Cuailgné's champion here I see + In all his pride and pomp of fame, +He little heeds the prophecy, + So swift his course, so straight his aim. +Towards us he flies, as flies the gleam + Of lightning, or as waters flow +From some high cliff o'er which the stream + Drops in the foaming depths below. + +FERDIAH. + +Highly rewarded thou must be, + For much reward thou sure canst claim, +Else why with such persistency + Thus sing his praises since he came? +And now that he approacheth nigh, + And now that he doth draw more near, +It seems it is to glorify + And not to attack him thou art here. + +Not long Ferdiah's charioteer had gazed +With wondering look on the majestic car, +When, as with thunder-speed it wheeled more near, +He saw its whole construction and its plan: +A fair, flesh-seeking, four-peaked front it had, +And for its body a magnificent creit +Fashioned for war, in which the hero stood +Full-armed and brandishing a mighty spear, +While o'er his head a green pavilion hung; +Beneath, two fleetly-bounding, large-eared, fierce, +Whale-bellied, lively-hearted, high-flanked, proud, +Slender-legged, wide-hoofed, broad-buttocked, prancing steeds, +Exulting leaped and bore the car along: +Under one yoke, the broad-backed steed was gray, +Under the other, black the long-maned steed. + +Like to a hawk swooping from off a cliff, +Upon a day of harsh and biting wind, +Or like a spring gust on a wild March morn +Rushing resistless o'er a level plain, +Or like the fleetness of a stag when first +'Tis started by the hounds in its first field-- +So swept the horses of Cuchullin's car, +Bounding as if o'er fiery flags they flew, +Making the earth to shake beneath their tread, +And tremble 'neath the fleetness of their speed. + +At length, upon the north side of the Ford, +Cuchullin stopped. Upon the southern bank +Ferdiah stood, and thus addressed the chief: +"Glad am I, O Cuchullin, thou hast come." +"Up to this day," Cuchullin made reply, +"Thy welcome would by me have been received +As coming from a friend, but not to-day. +Besides, 'twere fitter that I welcomed thee, +Than that to me thou shouldst the welcome give; +'Tis I that should go forth to fight with thee, +Not thou to me, because before thee are +My women and my children, and my youths, +My herds and flocks, my horses and my steeds." + Ferdiah, half in scorn, spake then these words-- +And then Cuchullin answered in his turn. +"Good, O Cuchullin, what untoward fate +Has brought thee here to measure swords with me? +For when we two with Scatha lived, in Skye, +With Uatha, and with Aifé, thou wert then +My page to spread my couch for me at night, +Or tie my spears together for the chase." + "True hast thou spoken," said Cuchullin; "yes, +I then was young, thy junior, and I did +For thee the services thou dost recall; +A different story shall be told of us +From this day forth, for on this day I feel +Earth holds no champion that I dare not fight!" +And thus invectives bitter, sharp and cold, +Between the two were uttered, and first spake +Ferdiah, then alternate each with each. + +FERDIAH. + +What has brought thee here, O Hound, + To encounter a strong foe? +O'er the trappings of thy steeds + Crimson-red thy blood shall flow. +Woe is in thy journey, woe; + Let the cunning leech prepare; +Shouldst thou ever reach thy home, + Thou shalt need his care. + +CUCHULLIN. + +I, who here with warriors fought, + With the lordly chiefs of hosts, +With a hundred men at once, + Little heed thy empty boasts. +Thee beneath the wave to place, + Thee to strike and thee to slay +In the first path of our fight + Am I here to-day. + +FERDIAH. + +Thy reproach in me behold, + For 'tis I that deed will do, +'Tis of me that Fame shall tell + He the Ultonian's champion slew. +Yes, in spite of all their hosts, + Yes, in spite of all their prayers: +So it shall long be told + That the loss was theirs. + +CUCHULLIN. + +How, then, shall we first engage-- + Is it with the hard-edged sword? +In what order shall we go + To the battle of the Ford? +Shall we in our chariots ride? + Shall we wield the bloody spear? +How am I to hew thee down + With thy proud hosts here? + +FERDIAH. + +Ere the setting of the sun, + Ere shall come the darksome night, +If again thou must be told, + With a mountain thou shalt fight: +Thee the Ultonians will extol, + Thence impetuous wilt thou grow, +Oh! their grief, when through their ranks + Will thy spectre go! + +CUCHULLIN. + +Thou hast fallen in danger's gap, + Yes, thy end of life is nigh; +Sharp spears shall be plied on thee + Fairly 'neath the open sky: +Pompous thou wilt be and vain + Till the time for talk is o'er, +From this day a battle-chief + Thou shalt be no more. + +FERDIAH. + +Cease thy boastings, for the world + Sure no braggart hath like thee: +Thou art not the chosen chief-- + Thou hast not the champion's fee:-- +Without action, without force, + Thou art but a giggling page; +Yes, thou trembler, with thy heart + Like a bird's in cage. + +CUCHULLIN. + +When we were with Scatha once, + It but seemed our valour's due +That we should together fight, + Both as one our sports pursue. +Thou wert then my dearest friend, + Comrade, kinsman, thou wert all,-- +Ah, how sad, if by my hand + Thou at last should fall. + +FERDIAH. + +Much of honour shalt thou lose, + We may then mere words forego:-- +On a stake thy head shall be + Ere the early cock shall crow. +O Cuchullin, Cuailgné's pride, + Grief and madness round thee twine; +I will do thee every ill, + For the fault is thine. + +"Good, O Ferdiah, 'twas no knightly act," +Cuchullin said, "to have come meanly here, +To combat and to fight with an old friend, +Through instigation of the wily Mave, +Through intermeddling of Ailill the king; +To none of those who here before thee came +Was victory given, for they all fell by me:-- +Thou too shalt win nor victory, nor increase +Of fame in this encounter thou dost dare, +For as they fell, so thou by me shall fall." +Thus was he saying and he spake these words, +To which Ferdiah listened, not unmoved. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Come not to me, O champion of the host, + Come not to me, Ferdiah, as my foe, +For though it is thy fate to suffer most, + All, all must feel the universal woe. + +Come not to me defying what is right, + Come not to me, thy life is in my power; +Ah, the dread issue of each former fight + Why hast thou not remembered ere this hour? + +Art thou not bright with diverse dainty arms, + A purple girdle and a coat of mail? +And yet to win the maid of peerless charms + For whom thou dar'st the battle thou shalt fail. + +Yes, Finavair, the daughter of the queen, + The faultless form, the gold without alloy, +The glorious virgin of majestic mien, + Shalt not be thine, Ferdiah, to enjoy. + +No, the great prize shall not by thee be won,-- + A fatal lure, a false, false light is she, +To numbers promised and yet given to none, + And wounding many as she now wounds thee. + +Break not thy vow, never with me to fight, + Break not the bond that once thy young heart gave, +Break not the truth we both so loved to plight, + Come not to me, O champion bold and brave! + +To fifty champions by her smiles made slaves + The maid was proffered, and not slight the gift; +By me they have been sent into their graves, + From me they met destruction sure and swift. + +Though vauntingly Ferbaeth my arms defied, + He of a house of heroes prince and peer, +Short was the time until I tamed his pride + With one swift cast of my true battle-spear. + +Srub Dairé's valour too had swift decline: + Hundreds of women's secrets he possessed, +Great at one time was his renown as thine, + In cloth of gold, not silver, was he dressed. + +Though 'twas to me the woman was betrothed + On whom the chiefs of the fair province smile, +To shed thy blood my spirit would have loathed + East, west, or north, or south of all the isle. + +"Good, O Ferdiah," still continuing, spoke +Cuchullin, "thus it is that thou shouldst not +Have come with me to combat and to fight; +For when we were with Scatha, long ago, +With Uatha and with Aifé, we were wont +To go together to each battle-field, +To every combat and to every fight, +Through every forest, every wilderness, +Through every darksome path and dangerous way." +And thus he said and thus he spake these words: + +CUCHULLIN. + +We were heart-comrades then,-- +Comrades in crowds of men, +In the same bed have lain, + When slumber sought us; +In countries far and near, +Hurling the battle spear, +Chasing the forest deer, + As Scatha taught us. + + "O Cuchullin of the beautiful feats," +Replied Ferdiah, "though we have pursued +Together thus the arts of war and peace, +And though the bonds of friendship that we swore +Thou hast recalled to mind, from me shall come +Thy first of wounds. O Hound, remember not +Our old companionship, which shall not now +Avail thee, shall avail thee not, O Hound!" +"Too long here have we waited in this way," +Again resumed Ferdiah. "To what arms, +Say then, Cuchullin, shall we now resort?" +"The choice of arms is thine until the night," +Cuchullin made reply; "for so it chanced +That thou shouldst be the first to reach the Ford." +"Dost thou at all remember," then rejoined +Ferdiah, "those swift missive spears with which +We practised oft with Scatha in our youth, +With Uatha and with Aifé, and our friends?" +"Them I, indeed, remember well," replied +Cuchullin. "If thou dost remember well, +Let us to them resort," Ferdiah said. +Their missive weapons then on either side +They both resorted to. Upon their arms +They braced two emblematic missive shields, +And their eight well-turned-handled lances took, +Their eight quill-javelins also, and their eight +White ivory-hilted swords, and their eight spears, +Sharp, ivory-hafted, with hard points of steel. +Betwixt the twain the darts went to and fro, +Like bees upon the wing on a fine day; +No cast was made that was not sure to hit. +From morn to nigh mid-day the missiles flew, +Till on the bosses of the brazen shields +Their points were blunted, but though true the aim, +And excellent the shooting, the defence +Was so complete that not a wound was given, +And neither champion drew the other's blood. +"'Tis time to drop these feats," Ferdiah said, +"For not by such as these shall we decide +Our battle here this day." "Let us desist," +Cuchullin answered, "if the time hath come." +They ceased, and threw their missile shafts aside +Into the hands of their two charioteers. +"What weapons, O Cuchullin, shall we now +Resort to?" said Ferdiah. "Unto thee," +Cuchullin answered, "doth belong the choice +Of arms until the night, because thou wert +The first that reached the Ford." "Well, let us, then," +Ferdiah said, "resume our straight, smooth, hard, +Well-polished spears with their hard flaxen strings." +"Let us resume them, then," Cuchullin said. +They braced upon their arms two stouter shields, +And then resorted to their straight, smooth, hard, +Well-polished spears, with their hard flaxen strings.[50] +'Twas now mid-day, and thus 'till eventide +They shot against each other with the spears. +But though the guard was good on either side, +The shooting was so perfect that the blood +Ran from the wounds of each, by each made red. +"Let us now, O Cuchullin," interposed +Ferdiah, "for the present time desist." +"Let us indeed desist," Cuchullin said +"If, O Ferdiah, the fit time hath come." +They ceased, and laid their gory weapons down, +Their faithful charioteers' attendant care. +Each to the other gently then approached, +Each round the other's neck his hands entwined, +And gave him three fond kisses on the cheek. +Their horses fed in the same field that night, +Their charioteers were warmed at the same fire, +Their charioteers beneath their bodies spread +Green rushes, and beneath the heads the down +Of wounded men's soft pillows. Then the skilled +Professors of the art of healing came +With herbs, which to the scars of all their wounds +They put. Of every herb and healing plant +That to Cuchullin's wound they did apply, +He would an equal portion westward send +Over the Ford, Ferdiah's wounds to heal. +So that the men of Erin could not say, +If it should chance Ferdiah fell by him, +That it was through superior skill and care +Cuchullin was enabled him to slay. + + Of each kind, too, of palatable food +And sweet, intoxicating, pleasant drink, +The men of Erin to Ferdiah sent, +He a fair moiety across the Ford +Sent northward to Cuchullin, where he lay; +Because his own purveyors far surpassed +In numbers those the Ulster chief retained: +For all the federate hosts of Erin were +Purveyors to Ferdiah, with the hope +That he would beat Cuchullin from the Ford. +The Bregians[51] only were Cuchullin's friends, +His sole purveyors, and their wont it was +To come to him and talk to him at night. + + That night they rested there. Next morn they rose +And to the Ford of battle early came. +"What weapons shall we use to-day?" inquired +Cuchullin. "Until night the choice is thine," +Replied Ferdiah; "for the choice of arms +Has hitherto been mine." "Then let us take +Our great broad spears to-day," Cuchullin said, +"And may the thrusting bring us to an end +Sooner than yesterday's less powerful darts. +Let then our charioteers our horses yoke +Beneath our chariots, so that we to-day +May from our horses and our chariots fight." +Ferdiah answered: "Let it so be done." +And then they braced their two broad, full-firm shields +Upon their arms that day, and in their hands +That day they took their great broad-bladed spears. + And thus from early morn to evening's close +They smote each other with such dread effect +That both were pierced, and both made red with gore,-- +Such wounds, such hideous clefts in either breast +Lay open to the back, that if the birds +Cared ever through men's wounded frames to pass, +They might have passed that day, and with them borne +Pieces of quivering flesh into the air. +When evening came, their very steeds were tired, +Their charioteers depressed, and they themselves +Worn out--even they the champions bold and brave. +"Let us from this, Ferdiah, now desist," +Cuchullin said; "for see, our charioteers +Droop, and our very horses flag and fail, +And when fatigued they yield, so well may we." +And further thus he spoke, persuading rest:-- + +CUCHULLIN. + +Not with the obstinate rage and spite +With which Fomorian pirates fight +Let us, since now has fallen the night, + Continue thus our feud; +In brief abeyance it may rest, +Now that a calm comes o'er each breast:-- +When with new light the world is blest, + Be it again renewed." + +"Let us desist, indeed," Ferdiah said, +"If the fit time hath come."--And so they ceased. +From them they threw their arms into the hands +Of their two charioteers. Each of them came +Forward to meet the other. Each his hands +Put round the other's neck, and thus embraced, +Gave to him three fond kisses on the cheek. +Their horses fed in the same field that night; +Their charioteers were warmed by the same fire. +Their charioteers beneath their bodies spread +Green rushes, and beneath their heads the down +Of wounded men's soft pillows. Then the skilled +Professors of the art of healing came +To tend them and to cure them through the night. +But they for all their skill could do no more, +So numerous and so dangerous were the wounds, +The cuts, and clefts, and scars so large and deep, +But to apply to them the potent charms +Of witchcraft, incantations, and barb spells, +As sorcerers use, to stanch the blood and stay +The life that else would through the wounds escape:-- +Of every charm of witchcraft, every spell, +Of every incantation that was used +To heal Cuchullin's wounds, a full fair half +Over the Ford was westward sent to heal +Ferdiah's hurts: of every sort of food, +And sweet, intoxicating, pleasant drink +The men of Erin to Ferdiah sent, +He a fair moiety across the Ford +Sent northward to Cuchullin where he lay, +Because his own purveyors far surpassed +In number those the Ulster chief retained. +For all the federate hosts of Erin were +Purveyors to Ferdiah, with the hope +That he would beat Cuchullin from the Ford. +The Bregians only were Cuchullin's friends-- +His sole purveyors--and their wont it was +To come to him, and talk with him at night. + +They rested there that night. Next morn they rose, +And to the Ford of battle forward came. +That day a great, ill-favoured, lowering cloud +Upon Ferdiah's face Cuchullin saw. +"Badly," said he, "dost thou appear this day, +Ferdiah, for thy hair has duskier grown +This day, and a dull stupour dims thine eyes, +And thine own face and form, and what thou wert +In outward seeming have deserted thee." +"'Tis not through fear of thee that I am so," +Ferdiah said, "for Erin doth not hold +This day a champion I could not subdue." +And thus betwixt the twain this speech arose, +And thus Cuchullin mourned and he replied: + +CUCHULLIN. + +O Ferdiah, if it be thou, +Certain am I that on thy brow +The blush should burn and the shame should rise, +Degraded man whom the gods despise, +Here at a woman's bidding to wend +To fight thy fellow-pupil and friend. + +FERDIAH. + +O Cuchullin, O valiant man, +Inflicter of wounds since the war began, +O true champion, a man must come +To the fated spot of his final home,-- +To the sod predestined by fate's decree +His resting-place and his grave to be. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Finavair, the daughter of Mave, +Although thou art her willing slave, +Not for thy long-felt love has been +Promised to thee by the wily queen,-- +No, it was but to test thy might +That thou wert lured into this fatal fight. + +FERDIAH. + +My might was tested long ago +In many a battle, as thou dost know, +Long, O Hound of the gentle rule, +Since we fought together in Scatha's school: +Never a braver man have I seen, +Never, I feel, hath a braver been. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Thou art the cause of what has been done, +O son of Dáman, Daré's son, +Of all that has happened thou art the cause, +Whom hither a woman's counsel draws-- +Whom hither a wily woman doth send +To measure swords with thy earliest friend. + +FERDIAH. + +If I forsook the field, O Hound, +If I had turned from the battleground-- +This battleground without fight with thee, +Hard, oh, hard had it gone with me; +Bad should my name and fame have been +With King Ailill and with Mave the queen. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Though Mave of Croghan had given me food, +Even from her lips, though all of good +That the heart can wish or wealth can give +Were offered to me, there does not live +A king or queen on the earth for whom +I would do thee ill or provoke thy doom. + +FERDIAH. + +O Cuchullin, thou victor in fight, +Of battle triumphs the foremost knight; +To what result the fight may lead, +'Twas Mave alone that prompted the deed; +Not thine the fault, not thine the blame, +Take thou the victory and the fame. + +CUCHULLIN. + +My faithful heart is a clot of blood, +A feud thus forced cannot end in good; +Oh, woe to him who is here to be slain! +Oh, grief to him who his life will gain! +For feats of valour no strength have I +To fight the fight where my friend must die. + +"A truce to these invectives," then broke in +Ferdiah; "we far other work this day +Have yet to do than rail with woman's words. +Say, what shall be our arms in this day's fight?" +"Till night," Cuchullin said, "the choice is thine, +For yester morn the choice was given to me." +"Let us," Ferdiah answered, "then resort +Unto our heavy, sharp, hard-smiting swords, +For we are nearer to the end to-day +Of this our fight, by hewing, than we were +On yesterday by thrusting of the spears." +"So let us do, indeed," Cuchullin said. +Then on their arms two long great shields they took, +And in their hands their sharp, hard-smiting swords. +Each hewed the other with such furious strokes +That pieces larger than an infant's head +Of four weeks' old were cut from out the thighs +And great broad shoulder-blades of each brave chief. +And thus they persevered from early morn +Till evening's close in hewing with the swords. +"Let us desist," at length Ferdiah said. +"Let us indeed desist, if the fit time +Hath come," Cuchullin said; and so they ceased. +From them they cast their arms into the hands +Of their two charioteers; and though that morn +Their meeting was of two high-spirited men, +Their separation, now that night had come, +Was of two men dispirited and sad. +Their horses were not in one field that night, +Their charioteers were warmed not at one fire. +That night they rested there, and in the morn +Ferdiah early rose and sought alone +The Ford of battle, for he knew that day +Would end the fight, and that the hour drew nigh +When one or both of them should surely fall. + +Then was it for the first time he put on +His battle suit of battle and of fight, +Before Cuchullin came unto the Ford. +That battle suit of battle and of fight +Was this: His apron of white silk, with fringe +Of spangled gold around it, he put on +Next his white skin. A leather apron then, +Well sewn, upon his body's lower part +He placed, and over it a mighty stone +As large as any mill-stone was secured. +His firm, deep, iron apron then he braced +Over the mighty stone--an apron made +Of iron purified from every dross-- +Such dread had he that day of the Gaebulg. +His crested helm of battle on his head +He last put on--a helmet all ablaze +From forty gems in each compartment set, +Cruan, and crystal, carbuncles of fire, +And brilliant rubies of the Eastern world. +In his right hand a mighty spear he seized, +Destructive, sharply-pointed, straight and strong:-- +On his left side his sword of battle swung, +Curved, with its hilt and pommel of red gold. +Upon the slope of his broad back he placed +His dazzling shield, around whose margin rose +Fifty huge bosses, each of such a size +That on it might a full-grown hog recline, +Exclusive of the larger central boss +That raised its prominent round of pure red gold. + +Full many noble, varied, wondrous feats +Ferdiah on that day displayed, which he +Had never learned at any tutor's hand, +From Uatha, or from Aifé, or from her, +Scatha, his early nurse in lonely Skye:-- +But which were all invented by himself +That day, to bring about Cuchullin's fall. + +Cuchullin to the Ford approached and saw +The many noble, varied, wondrous feats +Ferdiah on that day displayed on high. +"O Laegh, my friend," Cuchullin thus addressed +His charioteer, "I see the wondrous feats +Ferdiah doth display on high to-day: +All these on me in turn shall soon be tried, +And therefore note, that if it so should chance +I shall be first to yield, be sure to taunt, +Excite, revile me, and reproach me so, +That wrath and rage in me may rise the more:-- +If I prevail, then let thy words be praise, +Laud me, congratulate me, do thy best +To stimulate my courage to its height." +"It shall be done, Cuchullin," Laegh replied. + +Then was it that Cuchullin first assumed +His battle suit of battle: then he tried +Full many, various, noble, wondrous feats +He never learned from any tutor's hands, +From Uatha, or from Aifé, or from her, +Scatha, his early nurse in lonely Skye. +Ferdiah saw these various feats, and knew +Against himself they soon would be applied. + +"Say, O Ferdiah, to what arms shall we +Resort in this day's fight?" Cuchullin said. +Ferdiah answered, "Unto thee belongs +The choice of weapons now until the night." +"Let us then try the Ford Feat on this day," +Replied Cuchullin. "Let us then, indeed," +Rejoined Ferdiah, with a careless air +Consenting, though in truth it was to him +The cause of grief to say so, since he knew +That in the Ford Feat lay Cuchullin's strength, +And that he never failed to overthrow +Champion or hero in that last appeal. + +Great was the feat that was performed that day +In and beside the Ford: the mighty two, +The two great heroes, warriors, champions, chiefs +Of western Europe--the two open hands +Laden with gifts of the north-western world,-- +The two beloved pillars that upheld +The valour of the Gaels--the two strong keys +That kept the bravery of the Gaels secure-- +Thus to be brought together from afar +To fight each other through the meddling schemes +Of Ailill and his wily partner Mave. + From each to each the missive weapons flew +From dawn of early morning to mid-day; +And when mid-day had come, the ire of both +Became more furious, and they drew more near. +Then was it that Cuchullin made a spring +From the Ford's brink, and came upon the boss +Of the great shield Ferdiah's arm upheld, +That thus he might, above the broad shield's rim, +Strike at his head. Ferdiah with a touch +Of his left elbow, gave the shield a shake +And cast Cuchullin from him like a bird, +Back to the brink of the Ford. Again he sprang +From the Ford's brink, and came upon the boss +Of the great shield once more, to strike his head +Over the rim. Ferdiah with a stroke +Of his left knee made the great shield to ring, +And cast Cuchullin back upon the brink, +As if he only were a little child. + Laegh saw the act. "Alas! indeed," said Laegh, +"The warrior casts thee from him in the way +That an abandoned woman would her child. +He flings thee as a river flings its foam; +He grinds thee as a mill would grind fresh malt; +He fells thee as the axe does fell the oak; +He binds thee as the woodbine binds the tree; +He darts upon thee as a hawk doth dart +Upon small birds, so that from this hour forth +Until the end of time, thou hast no claim +Or title to be called a valorous man: +Thou little puny phantom form," said Laegh. + Then with the rapid motion of the wind, +The fleetness of a swallow on the wing, +The fierceness of a dragon, and the strength +Of a roused lion, once again up sprang +Cuchullin, high into the troubled air, +And lighted for the third time on the boss +Of the broad shield, to strike Ferdiah's head +Over the rim. The warrior shook the shield, +And cast Cuchullin mid-way in the Ford, +With such an easy effort that it seemed +As if he scarcely deigned to shake him off. + + Then, as he lay, a strange distortion came +Upon Cuchullin; as a bladder swells +Inflated by the breath, to such a size +And fulness did he grow, that he became +A fearful, many-coloured, wondrous Tuaig-- +Gigantic shape, as big as a man of the sea, +Or monstrous Fomor, so that now his form +In perfect height over Ferdiah stood. + +So close the fight was now, that their heads met +Above, their feet below, their arms half-way +Over the rims and bosses of their shields:-- +So close the fight was now, that from their rims +Unto their centres were their shields cut through, +And loosed was every rivet from its hold; +So close the fight was now, that their strong spears +Were turned and bent and shivered point and haft; +Such was the closeness of the fight they made +That the invisible and unearthly hosts +Of Spirits, Bocanachs and Bananachs, +And the wild wizard people of the glen +And of the air the demons, shrieked and screamed +From their broad shields' reverberating rim, +From their sword-hilts and their long-shafted spears: +Such was the closeness of the fight they made, +They forced the river from its natural course, +Out of its bed, so that it might have been +A couch whereon a king or queen might lie, +For not a drop of water it retained, +Except what came from the great tramp and splash +Of the two heroes fighting in its midst. +Such was the fierceness of the fight they waged, +That a wild fury seized upon the steeds +The Gaels had gathered with them; in affright +They burst their traces and their binding ropes, +Nay even their chains, and panting fled away. +The women, too, and youths, by equal fears +Inspired and scared, and all the varied crowd +Of followers and non-combatants who there +Were with the men of Erin, from the camp +South-westward broke away, and fled the Ford. + + At the edge-feat of swords they were engaged +When this surprise occurred, and it was then +Ferdiah an unguarded moment found +Upon Cuchullin, and he struck him deep, +Plunging his straight-edged sword up to the hilt +Within his body, till his girdle filled +With blood, and all the Ford ran red with gore +From the brave battle-warrior's veins outshed. +This could Cuchullin now no longer bear +Because Ferdiah still the unguarded spot +Struck and re-struck with quick, strong, stubborn strokes; +And so he called aloud to Laegh, the son +Of Riangabra, for the dread Gaebulg. +The manner of that fearful feat was this: +Adown the current was it sent, and caught +Between the toes: a single spear would make +The wound it made when entering, but once lodged +Within the body, thirty barbs outsprung, +So that it could not be withdrawn until +The body was cut open where it lay. +And when of the Gaebulg Ferdiah heard +The name, he made a downward stroke of his shield, +To guard his body. Then Cuchullin thrust +The unerring thorny spear straight o'er the rim, +And through the breast-plate of his coat of mail, +So that its farther half was seen beyond +His body, after passing through his heart. + + Ferdiah gave an upward stroke of his shield, +His breast to cover, though it was "the relief +After the danger." Then the servant set +The dread Gaebulg adown the flowing stream; +Cuchullin caught it firmly 'twixt his toes, +And from his foot a fearful cast he threw +Upon Ferdiah with unerring aim. +Swift through the well-wrought iron apron guard +It passed, and through the stone which was as large +As a huge mill-stone, cracking it in three, +And so into his body, every part +Of which was filled with the expanding barbs +"That is enough: by that one blow I fall," +Ferdiah said. "Indeed, I now may own +That I am sickly after thee this day, +Though it behoved not thee that I should fall +By stroke of thine;" and then these dying words +He added, tottering back upon the bank: + +FERDIAH. + +O Hound, so famed for deeds of valour doing, + 'Twas not thy place my death to give to me; +Thine is the fault of my most certain ruin, + And yet 'tis best to have my blood on thee. + +The wretch escapes not from his false position, + Who to the gap of his destruction goes; +Alas! my death-sick voice needs no physician, + My end hath come--my life's stream seaward flows. + +The natural ramparts of my breast are broken, + In its own gore my struggling heart is drowned:-- +Alas! I have not fought as I have spoken, + For thou hast killed me in the fight, O Hound! + +Cuchullin towards him ran, and his two arms +Clasping about him, lifted him and bore +The body in its armour and its clothes +Across the Ford unto the northern bank, +In order that the slain should thus be placed +Upon the north bank of the Ford, and not +Among the men of Erin, on the west. +Cuchullin laid Ferdiah down, and then +A sudden trance, a faintness on him came +When bending o'er the body of his friend. +Laegh saw the weakness, which was seen as well +By all the men of Erin, who arose +Upon the moment to attack him there. +"Good, O Cuchullin," Laegh exclaimed, "arise, +For all the men of Erin hither come. +It is no single combat they will give, +Since fair Ferdiah, Dáman's son, the son +Of Daré, by thy hands has here been slain." +"O servant, what availeth me to rise," +Cuchullin said, "since he hath fallen by me?" +And so the servant said, and so replied +Cuchullin, in his turn, unto the end; + +LAEGH. + +Arise, Emania's slaughter-hound, arise, + Exultant pride should be thy mood this day:-- +Ferdiah of the hosts before thee lies-- + Hard was the fight and dreadful was the fray. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Ah, what availeth me a hero's pride? + Madness and grief are in my heart and brain, +For the dear blood with which my hand is dyed-- + For the dear body that I here have slain. + +LAEGH. + +It suits thee ill to shed these idle tears, + Fitter by far for thee a fiercer mood-- +At thee he flung the flying pointed spears, + Malicious, wounding, dripping, dyed with blood. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Even though he left me crippled, maimed, and lame, + Even though I lost this arm that now but bleeds, +All would I bear, but now the fields of fame + No more shall see Ferdiah mount his steeds. + +LAEGH. + +More pleasing is the victory thou hast gained, + More pleasing to the women of Creeve Rue, +He to have died and thou to have remained, + To them the brave who fell here are too few. + +From that black day in brilliant Mave's long reign + Thou camest out of Cuailgné it has been-- +Her people slaughtered and her champions slain-- + A time of desolation to the queen. + +When thy great plundered flock was borne away, + Thou didst not lie with slumber-sealèd eyes,-- +Then 'twas thy boast to rise before the day:-- + Arise again, Emania's Hound, arise! + +So Laegh addressed the hero, though he seemed +To hear him not, but mourned his friend the more. +And thus he spoke these words, and thus he moaned: + + "Alas! Ferdiah, an unhappy chance +It was for thee that thou didst not consult +Some of the heroes who my prowess knew, +Before thou camest forth to meet me here, +In the hard battle combat by the Ford. +Unhappy was it that it was not Laegh, +The son of Riangabra, thou didst ask +About our fellow-pupilship--a bond +That might the unnatural combat so have stayed; +Unhappy was it that thou didst not ask +Honest advice from Fergus, son of Roy; +Or that it was not battle-winning, proud, +Exulting, ruddy Connall thou didst ask +About our fellow-pupilship of old. +For well do these men know there will not be +A being born among the Conacians who +Shall do the deeds of valour thou hast done +From this day forth until the end of time. +For if thou hadst consulted these brave men +About the places where the assemblies meet, +About the plightings and the broken vows +Uttered too oft by Connaught's fair-haired dames; +If thou hadst asked about the games and sports +Played with the targe and shield, the sword and spear, +If of backgammon or the moves of chess, +Or races with the chariots and the steeds, +They never would have found a champion's arm +As strong to pierce a hero's flesh as thine, +O rose-cloud hued Ferdiah! None to raise +The red-mouthed vulture's hoarse, inviting croak +Unto the many-coloured flocks, nor one +Who will for Croghan combat like to thee, +O red-cheeked son of Dáman!" Thus he said, +Then standing o'er Ferdiah he resumed: +"Oh! great has been the treachery and fraud +The men of Erin practised upon thee, +Ferdiah, thus to bring thee here to fight +With me, 'gainst whom it is no easy task +Upon the <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné</i> to contend." +And thus he said, and thus again he spake: + +CUCHULLIN. + +O my Ferdiah, O my friend, forgive: + 'Tis not my hand but treachery lays thee low:-- +Thou doomed to die and I condemned to live, + Both doomed for ever to be severed so! + +When we were far away in our young prime, + With Scatha, dread Buánnan's chosen friend, +A vow we made, that till the end of time, + With hostile arms we never should contend. + +Dear was thy lovely ruddiness to me, + Dear was thy gray-blue eye, so bright and clear,-- +Thy comely, perfect form how sweet to see! + Thy wisdom and thy eloquence how dear! + +In body-cutting combat, on the field + Of spears, when all is lost or all is won, +None braver ever yet held up a shield, + Than thou, Ferdiah, Dáman's ruddy son. + +Never since Aifé's only son I slew, + Not knowing who the gallant youth might be,-- +Ah! hapless deed, that still my heart doth rue!-- + None have I found, Ferdiah, like to thee. + +Thy dream it was to win fair Finavair, + From Mave her beauteous daughter's hand to gain; +As soon might'st thou in the wide fields of air + The glancing sunbeam's swift-winged flight restrain. + +He paused awhile, still gazing on the dead, +Then to his charioteer he spoke: "Friend Laegh, +Strip now Ferdiah, take his armour off, +That I may see the golden brooch of Mave, +For which he undertook the fatal fight." +Laegh took the armour then from off his breast, +And then Cuchullin saw the golden pin +That cost so dear, and then these words he spake: + +CUCHULLIN. + +Alas! O brooch of gold! + O chief, whose fame each poet knows, + O hero of stout slaughtering blows, +Thy arm was brave and bold. + +Thy yellow flowing hair, + Thy purple girdle's silken fold + Still even in death around thee rolled,-- +Thy twisted jewel rare. + +Thy noble beaming eyes, + Now closed in death, make mine grow dim, + Thy dazzling shield with golden rim, +Thy chess a king might prize. + +Oh! piteous to behold, + My fellow-pupil falls by me: + It was an end that should not be, +Alas! O brooch of gold! + +After another pause Cuchullin spoke:-- +"O Laegh, my friend, open Ferdiah now, +And from his body the Gaebulg take out, +For I without my weapon cannot be." + +Laegh then approached, and with a strong, sharp knife +Opened Ferdiah's body, and drew out +The dread Gaebulg. And when Cuchullin saw +His bloody weapon lying red beside +Ferdiah on the ground, again he thought +Of all their past career, and thus he said: + +CUCHULLIN. + +Sad is my fate that I should see thee lying, + Sad is the fate, Ferdiah, I deplore,-- +I with my weapon which thy blood is dyeing, + Thou on the ground a mass of streaming gore. + +When we were young, where Scatha's eye hath seen us + Fond fellow-pupils in her schools of Skye, +Never was heard the angry word between us, + Never was seen the angry spear to fly. + +Scatha, with words of eloquent persuading, + Roused us in many a glorious feat to join; +"Go," she exclaimed, "each other bravely aiding, + Go forth to battle with the dread Germoin." + +I to Ferdiah said: "Oh, come, my brother," + I to the ever-generous Luaigh said, +I to fair Baetan's son, and many another: + "Come, let us go and fight this foe so dread." + +Crossing the sea in ships of peaceful traders, + All of us came to lone Lind Formairt's lake, +With us we brought four hundred brave invaders + Out of the islands of the Athisech. + +I and Ferdiah were the first to enter, + Where he himself, the dread Germoin, held rule, +Rind, Nial's son, I clove from head to centre, + Ruad I killed, the son of Finniule. + +First on the shore, as swift our fleet ships flew there, + Bláth, son of Calba of red swords, was slain; +Struck by Ferdiah, Luaigh also slew there + Fierce rude Mugarne of the Torrian main. + +Bravely we battled against that court enchanted, + Full four times fifty heroes fell by me: +He, by their savage onslaught nothing daunted, + Slew ox-like monsters clambering from the sea. + +Wily Germoin, amid so many slaughters, + We took alive as trophy of the field, +Him o'er the broad, bright sea of spangled waters + We bore to Scatha of the bright broad shield. + +She, our famed tutoress, with kind endeavour, + Bound us from that day forth with heart and hand, +When met fair Elgga's tribes, that we should never + In hostile ranks before each other stand. + +Oh, day of woe! oh, day without a morrow! + Oh, fatal Tuesday morning, when the bud +Of his young life was scattered! Oh! the sorrow, + To give the friend I loved a drink of blood! + +Ah, if I saw thee among heroes lying + Dead on some glorious battlefield of Greece, +Soon would I follow thee, and proudly dying, + Sleep with my friend triumphant and at peace. + +We, Scatha's pupils, ah, how sad the story! + Thou to be dead and I to be alive: +I to be wounded here, all gashed and gory, + Thou never more thy chariot's steeds to drive. + +We, Scatha's pupils, ah! how sad the story; + Sad is the fate to which we both are led: +I to be wounded here, all gashed and gory, + And thou, alas! my friend, to lie here dead. + +We, Scatha's pupils, ah, how sad the story! + Sad is the deed and sorrowful the wrong: +Thou to be dead without thy meed of glory, + And I, oh! shame, to be alive and strong! + +Laegh interposed at length, and thus he said: +"Good, O Cuchullin, let us leave the Ford, +For long have we been here, by far too long." +"Let us then leave it now," Cuchullin said, +"O Laegh, my friend, but know that every fight +In which I hitherto have drawn my sword, +Has been but as a pastime and a sport +Compared with this one with Ferdiah fought." +And he was saying, and he spake these words: + +CUCHULLIN. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +Alike the teaching we received, +Alike were glad, alike were grieved, +Alike were we by Scatha's grace +Deemed worthy of the highest place. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +Alike our habits and our ways, +Alike our prowess and our praise, +Alike the trophies of the brave, +The glittering shields that Scatha gave. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +How dear to me, ah! who can know? +This golden pillar here laid low, +This mighty tree so strong and tall, +The chief, the champion of us all! + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +The lion rushing with a roar, +The wave that swallows up the shore, +When storm-winds blow and heaven is dim, +Could only be compared to him. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +Through me the friend I loved is dead, +A cloud is ever on my head-- +The mountain form, the giant frame, +Is now a shadow and a name. + +The countless legions of the <i>Tain,</i> +Those hands of mine have turned and slain: +Their men and steeds before me died, +Their flocks and herds on either side, +Though numerous were the hosts that came +From Croghan's Rath of fatal fame. + +Though less than half the foes I led, +Before me soon my foes lay dead: +Never to gory battle pressed, +Never was nursed on Bamba's breast, +Never from sons of kings there came +A hero of more glorious fame.[52] +</pre> +<p><sup>28</sup> This poem is now published for the first time + in its complete state.</p> +<p><sup>29</sup> Autumn; strictly the last night in October.  (See + O'Curry's + "Sick Bed of Cuchullin," <i>Atlantis,</i> i., p. 370).</p> +<p><sup>30</sup> Culann was the name of Conor MacNessa's smith, and it was + from him + that Setanta derived the name of Cu-Chulainn, or Culann's Hound.</p> +<p><sup>31</sup> Iorrus Domnann, now Erris, in the county of Mayo.  It + derived its + name ("Bay of the Domnanns," or "Deep-diggers,") from the party of the + Firbolgs, + so called, having settled there, under their chiefs Genann and + Rudhraighe.  + (See "The Fate of the Children of Lir," by O'Curry, <i>Atlantis,</i> iv., + p. 123; + Dr. Reeve's "Adamnan's Life of St. Columba," note 6, p. 31; O'Flaherty's + "Ogygia," p. 280; and Hardiman's "West Connaught," by O'Flaherty, published + by the Irish Archæological Society.)</p> +<p><sup>32</sup> The name of Scatha, the Amazonian instructress of Ferdiah and + Cuchullin, + is still preserved in Dun Sciath, in the island of Skye, where great + Cuchullin's + name and glory yet linger.  The Cuchullin Mountains, named after him, + "those thunder-smitten, jagged, Cuchullin peaks of Skye," the grandest + mountain + range in Great Britain, attract to that remote island of the Hebrides many + worshippers of the sublime and beautiful in nature, whose enjoyments would + be largely enhanced if they knew the heroic legends which are connected with + the glorious scenes they have travelled so far to witness.  Cuchullin is + one of the foremost characters in MacPherson's "Ossian," but the + quasi-translator + of Gaelic poems places him more than two centuries later than the period at + which he really lived.  (Lady Ferguson's "The Irish before the Conquest," + pp. 57, 58.)</p> +<p><sup>33</sup> For a description of this mysterious instrument, see Dr. + Todd's + "Additional Notes to the Irish version of Nennius," p. 12.</p> +<p><sup>34</sup> On the use of mail armour by the ancient Irish, see Dr. + O'Donovan's + "Introduction and Notes to the Battle of Magh-Rath," edited for the + Archæological Society.</p> +<p><sup>35</sup> For an interesting account of this sovereign, so famous in + Irish + story, see O'Curry's "Lectures," pp. 33, 34.  Her Father, according + to the chronology of the "Four Masters," is supposed to have reigned as + monarch of Erin about a century before the Christian era.  "Of all + the children of the monarch Eochaidh Fiedloch," says O'Donovan (cited in + O'Mahony's translation of Keating's "History," p. 276) "by far the most + celebrated was Meadbh or Mab, who is still remembered as the fairy queen + of the Irish, the 'Queen Mab' of Spenser."</p> +<p><sup>36</sup> "The belief that a <i>ferb</i> or ulcer could be produced," + says + Mr. Stokes, in his preface to 'Cormac's Glossary,' "forms the groundwork + of the tale of Nêde mac Adnae and his uncle, Caier."  The + names of the three blisters (Stain, Blemish, and Defect) are almost + identical with those Ferdiah is threatened with in the present poem.</p> +<p><sup>37</sup> A <i>cumal</i> was three cows, or their value.  On the + use of + chariots, see "The Sick Bed of Cuchullin," <i>Atlantis,</i> i., p. 375.</p> +<p><sup>38</sup> "The plains of Aie" (son of Allghuba the Druid), in + Roscommon.  + Here stood the palace of Cruachain (O'Curry's "Lectures," p. 35; + "Battle of Magh Leana," p. 61).</p> +<p><sup>39</sup> "Fair-brow" (O'Curry, "Exile of the Children of Uisnech," + <i>Atlantis,</i> ii., p. 386).</p> +<p><sup>40</sup> Here in the original there is a sudden change from prose to + verse.  "It is generally supposed that these stories were recited + by the ancient Irish poets for the amusement of their chieftains at + their public feasts, and that the portions given in metre were sung" + ("Battle of Magh Rath," p. 12).  The prose portions of this tale + are represented in the translation by blank verse, and the lyrical + portions by rhymed verse.</p> +<p><sup>41</sup> "Ugainè Mor exacted oaths by the sun and moon, the sea, + the dew, and colours . . . that the sovereignty of Erin should be + invested in his descendants for ever" (<i>Ib.</i> p. 3).</p> +<p><sup>42</sup> The high dignity of Domnal may be inferred from the + following lines, quoted from MacLenini, in the preface to + "Cormac's Glossary," p. 51:—<br /> +     "As blackbirds to swans, as an ounce to a mass of gold,<br /> +      As the forms of peasant women to the forms of + queens,<br /> +      As a king to Domnal . . .<br/> +      As a taper to a candle, so is a sword to <i>my</i> + sword."</p> +<p><sup>43</sup> She was the wife of Nêd, the war-god.  See + O'Donovan's + "Annals of the Four Masters," vol. i., p. 24.</p> +<p><sup>44</sup> Etán is said to have been <i>muime na filed,</i> nurse + of the + poets ("Three Irish Glossaries," preface, p. 33).</p> +<p><sup>45</sup> At Rathcroghan was the palace of the Kings of Connacht.</p> +<p><sup>46</sup> A name of Ireland ("Battle of Magh Leana," p. 79).</p> +<p><sup>47</sup> So the night before the battle of Magh Rath, "the monarch, + grandson of Ainmire, slept not, in consequence of the weight of the + battle and the anxiety of the conflict pressing on his mind; + for he was certain that his own beloved foster-son would, + on the morrow, meet his last fate."</p> +<p><sup>48</sup> In the "Battle of Magh Leana" these mysterious beings are + called "the Women of the Valley" (p. 120).</p> +<p><sup>49</sup> For this line and for many valuable suggestions throughout + the poem I am indebted to the deep poetical insight and correct + judgment of my friend, Aubrey de Vere.</p> +<p><sup>50</sup> "Derg Dian Scothach saw this order, and he put his + forefinger into the string of the spear."  "Fate of the + Children of Tuireann," by O'Curry, <i>Atlantis,</i> iv., p. 233.  + See also "Battle of Magh Rath," pp. 140, 141, 152.</p> +<p><sup>51</sup> Bregia was the ancient name of the plain watered by the + Boyne.</p> +<p><sup>52</sup> According to the marginal note of the learned editor, the + last four + lines appear to be a sort of epilogue, in which the poet extols the + victor.</p> +<p><a name="p083" id="p083"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN.</h3> +<h4><font size="-1">A.D.</font> 545.</h4> +</center> +<p>[We are informed that Brendan, hearing of the previous voyage +of his cousin, Barinthus, in the western ocean, and obtaining +an account from him of the happy isles he had landed on +in the far west, determined, under the strong desire of winning +heathen souls to Christ, to undertake a voyage of discovery +himself.  And aware that all along the western coast of Ireland +there were many traditions respecting the existence of a +western land, he proceeded to the islands of Arran, and there +remained for some time, holding communication with the +venerable St. Enda, and obtaining from him much information +relating to his voyage.  Having prosecuted his inquiries with +diligence, Brendan returned to his native Kerry; and from +a bay sheltered by the lofty mountain that is now known by +his name, he set sail for the Atlantic land; and, directing his +course towards the south-west, in order to meet the summer +solstice, or what we should call the tropic, after a long and +rough voyage, his little bark being well provisioned, he came +to summer seas, where he was carried along, without the aid +of sail or oar, for many a long day.  This, which it is to be +presumed was the great gulf-stream, brought his vessel to +shore somewhere about the Virginian capes, or where the +American coast tends eastward, and forms the New England +States.  Here landing, he and his companions marched steadily +into the interior for fifteen days, and then came to a large +river, flowing from east to west: this, evidently, was the river +Ohio.  And this the holy adventurer was about to cross, when +he was accosted by a person of noble presence—but whether a +real or visionary man does not appear—who told him he had +gone far enough; that further discoveries were reserved for +other men, who would, in due time, come and Christianise all +that pleasant land.  It is said he remained seven years away, +and returned to set up a college of three thousand monks, at +Clonfert.—<i>Cæsar Otway's Sketches in Erris and Tyrawley,</i> note, +pp. 98, 99.]</p> +<center> +<h4>T<font size="-1">HE</font> V<font size="-1">OCATION</font>.</h4> +</center> +<p>[When St. Brendan was an infant, says Colgan, he was +placed under the care of St. Ita, and remained with her five +years, after which period he was led away by Bishop Ercus in +order to receive from him the more solid instruction necessary +for his advancing years.  Brendan always retained the greatest +respect and affection for his foster-mother, and he is represented, +after his seven years' voyage, amusing St. Ita with an +account of his adventures in the ocean.]</p> +<pre> +O Ita, mother of my heart and mind-- + My nourisher, my fosterer, my friend, +Who taught me first to God's great will resigned, + Before his shining altar-steps to bend; +Who poured his word upon my soul like balm, + And on mine eyes what pious fancy paints-- +And on mine ear the sweetly swelling psalm, + And all the sacred knowledge of the saints; + +To whom but thee, dear mother, should be told + Of all the wonders I have seen afar?-- +Islands more green and suns of brighter gold + Than this dear land or yonder blazing star; +Of hills that bear the fruit-trees on their tops, + And seas that dimple with eternal smiles; +Of airs from heaven that fan the golden crops, + O'er the great ocean 'mid the blessed isles! + +Thou knowest, O my mother! how to thee + The blessed Ercus led me when a boy, +And how within thine arms and at thine knee, + I learned the lore that death cannot destroy; +And how I parted hence with bitter tears, + And felt, when turning from thy friendly door, +In the reality of ripening years, + My paradise of childhood was no more. + +I wept--but not with sin such tear-drops flow;-- + I sighed--for earthly things with heaven entwine; +Tears make the harvest of the heart to grow, + And love though human is almost divine. +The heart that loves not knows not how to pray; + The eye can never smile that never weeps: +'Tis through our sighs hope's kindling sunbeams play + And through our tears the bow of promise peeps. + +I grew to manhood by the western wave, + Among the mighty mountains on the shore: +My bed the rock within some natural cave, + My food whate'er the seas or seasons bore: +My occupation, morn and noon and night: + The only dream my hasty slumbers gave, +Was Time's unheeding, unreturning flight, + And the great world that lies beyond the grave. + +And thus, where'er I went, all things to me + Assumed the one deep colour of my mind; +Great nature's prayer rose from the murmuring sea, + And sinful man sighed in the wintry wind. +The thick-veiled clouds by shedding many a tear, + Like penitents, grew purified and bright, +And, bravely struggling through earth's atmosphere, + Passed to the regions of eternal light. + +I loved to watch the clouds now dark and dun, + In long procession and funeral line, +Pass with slow pace across the glorious sun, + Like hooded monks before a dazzling shrine. +And now with gentler beauty as they rolled + Along the azure vault in gladsome May, +Gleaming pure white, and edged with broidered gold, + Like snowy vestments on the Virgin's day. + +And then I saw the mighty sea expand + Like Time's unmeasured and unfathomed waves, +One with its tide-marks on the ridgy sand, + The other with its line of weedy graves; +And as beyond the outstretched wave of time, + The eye of Faith a brighter land may meet, +So did I dream of some more sunny clime + Beyond the waste of waters at my feet. + +Some clime where man, unknowing and unknown, + For God's refreshing word still gasps and faints; +Or happier rather some Elysian zone, + Made for the habitation of his saints: +Where Nature's love the sweat of labour spares, + Nor turns to usury the wealth it lends, +Where the rich soil spontaneous harvest bears, + And the tall tree with milk-filled clusters bends. + +The thought grew stronger with my growing days, + Even like to manhood's strengthening mind and limb, +And often now amid the purple haze + That evening breathed upon the horizon's rim-- +Methought, as there I sought my wished-for home, + I could descry amid the waters green, +Full many a diamond shrine and golden dome, + And crystal palaces of dazzling sheen. + +And then I longed, with impotent desire, + Even for the bow whereby the Python bled, +That I might send on dart of the living fire + Into that land, before the vision fled, +And thus at length fix the enchanted shore, + Hy-Brasail, Eden of the western wave! +That thou again wouldst fade away no more, + Buried and lost within thy azure grave. + +But angels came and whispered as I dreamt, + "This is no phantom of a frenzied brain-- +God shows this land from time to time to tempt + Some daring mariner across the main: +By thee the mighty venture must be made, + By thee shall myriad souls to Christ be won! +Arise, depart, and trust to God for aid!" + I woke, and kneeling, cried, "His will be done!" +</pre> +<center> +<h4>A<font size="-1">RA OF THE</font> + S<font size="-1">AINTS</font>.<sup>53</sup></h4> +</center> +<pre> +Hearing how blessed Enda lived apart, + Amid the sacred caves of Ara-mhor, +And how beneath his eye, spread like a chart, + Lay all the isles of that remotest shore; +And how he had collected in his mind + All that was known to man of the Old Sea,[54] +I left the Hill of Miracles[55] behind, + And sailed from out the shallow, sandy Leigh. + +Betwixt the Samphire Isles swam my light skiff, + And like an arrow flew through Fenor Sound, +Swept by the pleasant strand, and the tall cliff, + Whereon the pale rose amethysts are found. +Rounded Moyferta's rocky point, and crossed + The mouth of stream-streaked Erin's mightiest tide, +Whose troubled waves break o'er the City lost, + Chafed by the marble turrets that they hide. + +Beneath Ibrickan's hills, moory and tame, + And Inniscaorach's caves, so wild and dark, +I sailed along. The white-faced otter came, + And gazed in wonder on my floating bark. +The soaring gannet, perched upon my mast, + And the proud bird, that flies but o'er the sea, +Wheeled o'er my head: and the girrinna passed + Upon the branch of some life-giving tree.[56] + +Leaving the awful cliffs of Corcomroe, + I sought the rocky eastern isle, that bears +The name of blessed Coemhan, who doth show + Pity unto the storm-tossed seaman's prayers; +Then crossing Bealach-na-fearbach's treacherous sound, + I reached the middle isle, whose citadel +Looks like a monarch from its throne around; + And there I rested by St. Kennerg's well. + +Again I sailed, and crossed the stormy sound + That lies beneath Binn-Aite's rocky height-- +And there, upon the shore, the Saint I found + Waiting my coming though the tardy night. +He led me to his home beside the wave, + Where, with his monks, the pious father dwelled, +And to my listening ear he freely gave + The sacred knowledge that his bosom held. + +When I proclaimed the project that I nursed, + How 'twas for this that I his blessing sought, +An irrepressible cry of joy outburst + From his pure lips, that blessed me for the thought. +He said that he, too, had in visions strayed + Over the untracked ocean's billowy foam; +Bid me have hope, that God would give me aid, + And bring me safe back to my native home. + +Oft, as we paced that marble-covered land, + Would blessed Enda tell me wondrous tales-- +How, for the children of his love, the hand + Of the Omnipotent Father never fails-- +How his own sister,[57] standing by the side + Of the great sea, which bore no human bark, +Spread her light cloak upon the conscious tide, + And sailed thereon securely as an ark. + +And how the winds become the willing slaves + Of those who labour in the work of God; +And how Scothinus walked upon the waves, + Which seemed to him the meadow's verdant sod. +How he himself came hither with his flock, + To teach the infidels from Corcomroe, +Upon the floating breast of the hard rock, + Which lay upon the glistening sands below. + +But not alone of miracles and joys + Would Enda speak--he told me of his dream; +When blessed Kieran went to Clonmacnois, + To found the sacred churches by the stream-- +How he did weep to see the angels flee + Away from Arran as a place accursed; +And men tear up the island-shading tree, + Out of the soil from which it sprung at first. + +At length I tore me from the good man's sight, + And o'er Loch Lurgan's mouth[58] took my lone way, +Which, in the sunny morning's golden light, + Shone like the burning lake of Lassaræ; +Now 'neath heaven's frown--and now, beneath its smile-- + Borne on the tide, or driven before the gale; +And, as I passed MacDara's sacred Isle, + Thrice bowed my mast, and thrice let down my sail. + +Westward of Arran as I sailed away; + I saw the fairest sight eye can behold-- +Rocks which, illumined by the morning's ray, + Seemed like a glorious city built of gold. +Men moved along each sunny shining street, + Fires seemed to blaze, and curling smoke to rise, +When lo! the city vanished, and a fleet, + With snowy sails, rose on my ravished eyes. + +Thus having sought for knowledge and for strength, + For the unheard-of voyage that I planned, +I left these myriad isles, and turned at length + Southward my bark, and sought my native land. +There made I all things ready, day by day, + The wicker-boat, with ox-skins covered o'er-- +Chose the good monks companions of my way, + And waited for the wind to leave the shore. +</pre> +<center> +<h4>T<font size="-1">HE</font> V<font size="-1">OYAGE</font>.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +At length the long-expected morning came, + When from the opening arms of that wild bay, +Beneath the hill that bears my humble name, + Over the waves we took our untracked way; +Sweetly the morning lay on tarn and rill, + Gladly the waves played in its golden light, +And the proud top of the majestic hill + Shone in the azure air, serene and bright. + +Over the sea we flew that sunny morn, + Not without natural tears and human sighs: +For who can leave the land where he was born, + And where, perchance, a buried mother lies; +Where all the friends of riper manhood dwell, + And where the playmates of his childhood sleep: +Who can depart, and breathe a cold farewell, + Nor let his eyes their honest tribute weep? + +Our little bark, kissing the dimpled smiles + On ocean's cheek, flew like a wanton bird, +And then the land, with all its hundred isles, + Faded away, and yet we spoke no word. +Each silent tongue held converse with the past, + Each moistened eye looked round the circling wave, +And, save the spot where stood our trembling mast, + Saw all things hid within one mighty grave. + +We were alone, on the wide watery waste-- + Nought broke its bright monotony of blue, +Save where the breeze the flying billows chased, + Or where the clouds their purple shadows threw. +We were alone--the pilgrims of the sea-- + One boundless azure desert round us spread; +No hope, no trust, no strength, except in THEE, + Father, who once the pilgrim-people led. + +And when the bright-faced sun resigned his throne + Unto the Ethiop queen, who rules the night, +Who with her pearly crown and starry zone, + Fills the dark dome of heaven with silvery light;-- +As on we sailed, beneath her milder sway, + And felt within our hearts her holier power, +We ceased from toil, and humbly knelt to pray, + And hailed with vesper hymns the tranquil hour! + +For then, indeed, the vaulted heavens appeared + A fitting shrine to hear their Maker's praise, +Such as no human architect has reared, + Where gems, and gold, and precious marbles blaze. +What earthly temple such a roof can boast?-- + What flickering lamp with the rich starlight vies, +When the round moon rests, like the sacred Host, + Upon the azure altar of the skies? + +We breathed aloud the Christian's filial prayer, + Which makes us brothers even with the Lord; +Our Father, cried we, in the midnight air, + In heaven and earth be thy great name adored; +May thy bright kingdom, where the angels are, + Replace this fleeting world, so dark and dim. +And then, with eyes fixed on some glorious star, + We sang the Virgin-Mother's vesper hymn! + +Hail, brightest star! that o'er life's troubled sea + Shines pitying down from heaven's elysian blue! +Mother and Maid, we fondly look to thee, + Fair gate of bliss, where heaven beams brightly through. +Star of the morning! guide our youthful days, + Shine on our infant steps in life's long race, +Star of the evening! with thy tranquil rays, + Gladden the aged eyes that seek thy face. + +Hail, sacred Maid! thou brighter, better Eve, + Take from our eyes the blinding scales of sin; +Within our hearts no selfish poison leave, + For thou the heavenly antidote canst win. +O sacred Mother! 'tis to thee we run-- + Poor children, from this world's oppressive strife; +Ask all we need from thy immortal Son, + Who drank of death, that we might taste of life. + +Hail, spotless Virgin! mildest, meekest maid-- + Hail! purest Pearl that time's great sea hath borne-- +May our white souls, in purity arrayed, + Shine, as if they thy vestal robes had worn; +Make our hearts pure, as thou thyself art pure, + Make safe the rugged pathway of our lives, +And make us pass to joys that will endure + When the dark term of mortal life arrives.[59] + +'Twas thus, in hymns, and prayers, and holy psalms, + Day tracking day, and night succeeding night, +Now driven by tempests, now delayed by calms, + Along the sea we winged our varied flight. +Oh! how we longed and pined for sight of land! + Oh! how we sighed for the green pleasant fields! +Compared with the cold waves, the barest strand-- + The bleakest rock--a crop of comfort yields. + +Sometimes, indeed, when the exhausted gale, + In search of rest, beneath the waves would flee, +Like some poor wretch who, when his strength doth fail, + Sinks in the smooth and unsupporting sea: +Then would the Brothers draw from memory's store + Some chapter of life's misery or bliss, +Some trial that some saintly spirit bore, + Or else some tale of passion, such as this: +</pre> +<center> +<h4>T<font size="-1">HE</font> B<font size="-1">URIED</font> + C<font size="-1">ITY</font>.</h4> +</center> +<p>[The peasants who live near the mouth of the Shannon +point to a part of the river within the headlands over which +the tides rush with extraordinary rapidity and violence.  They +say it is the site of a lost city, long buried beneath the waves.—See +Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii. p. 436.]</p> +<pre> +Beside that giant stream that foams and swells + Betwixt Hy-Conaill and Moyarta's shore, +And guards the isle where good Senanus dwells, + A gentle maiden dwelt in days of yore. +She long has passed out of Time's aching womb, + And breathes Eternity's favonian air; +Yet fond Tradition lingers o'er her tomb, + And paints her glorious features as they were:-- + +Her smile was Eden's pure and stainless light, + Which never cloud nor earthly vapour mars; +Her lustrous eyes were like the noon of night-- + Black, but yet brightened by a thousand stars; +Her tender form, moulded in modest grace, + Shrank from the gazer's eye, and moved apart; +Heaven shone reflected in her angel face, + And God reposed within her virgin heart. + +She dwelt in green Moyarta's pleasant land, + Beneath the graceful hills of Clonderlaw,-- +Sweet sunny hills, whose triple summits stand, + One vast tiara over stream and shaw. +Almost in solitude the maiden grew, + And reached her early budding woman's prime; +And all so noiselessly the swift time flew, + She knew not of the name or flight of Time. + +And thus, within her modest mountain nest, + This gentle maiden nestled like a dove, +Offering to God from her pure innocent breast + The sweet and silent incense of her love. +No selfish feeling nor presumptuous pride + In her calm bosom waged unnatural strife; +Saint of her home and hearth, she sanctified + The thousand trivial common cares of life. + +Upon the opposite shore there dwelt a youth, + Whose nature's woof was woven of good and ill-- +Whose stream of life flowed to the sea of truth, + But in a devious course, round many a hill-- +Now lingering through a valley of delight, + Where sweet flowers bloomed, and summer songbirds sung, +Now hurled along the dark, tempestuous night, + With gloomy, treeless mountains overhung. + +He sought the soul of Beauty throughout space, + Knowledge he tracked through many a vanished age: +For one he scanned fair Nature's radiant face, + And for the other, Learning's shrivelled page. +If Beauty sent some fair apostle down, + Or Knowledge some great teacher of her lore, +Bearing the wreath of rapture and the crown, + He knelt to love, to learn, and to adore. + +Full many a time he spread his little sail, + How rough the river, or how dark the skies, +Gave his light corrach to the angry gale, + And crossed the stream to gaze on Ethna's eyes. +As yet 'twas worship, more than human love, + That hopeless adoration that we pay +Unto some glorious planet throned above, + Through severed from its crystal sphere for aye. + +But warmer love an easy conquest won, + The more he came to green Moyarta's bowers; +Even as the earth, by gazing on the sun, + In summer-time puts forth her myriad flowers. +The yearnings of his heart--vague, undefined-- + Wakened and solaced by ideal gleams, +Took everlasting shape, and intertwined + Around this incarnation of his dreams. + +Some strange fatality restrained his tongue-- + He spoke not of the love that filled his breast; +The thread of hope, on which his whole life hung, + Was far too weak to bear so strong a test. +He trusted to the future--time, or chance-- + His constant homage and assiduous care; +Preferred to dream, and lengthen out his trance, + Rather than wake to knowledge and despair. + +And thus she knew not, when the youth would look + Upon some pictured chronicle of eld, +In every blazoned letter of the book + One fairest face was all that he beheld: +And where the limner, with consummate art, + Drew flowing lines and quaint devices rare, +The wildered youth, by looking from the heart, + Saw nought but lustrous eyes and waving hair. + +He soon was startled from his dreams, for now-- + 'Twas said, obedient to a heavenly call-- +His life of life would take the vestal vow, + In one short month, within a convent's wall. +He heard the tidings with a sickening fear, + But quickly had the sudden faintness flown, +And vowed, though heaven or hell should interfere, + Ethna--his Ethna--should be his alone! + +He sought his boat, and snatched the feathery oar-- + It was the first and brightest morn of May: +The white-winged clouds, that sought the northern shore, + Seemed but Love's guides, to point him out the way. +The great old river heaved its mighty heart, + And, with a solemn sigh, went calmly on; +As if of all his griefs it felt a part, + But know they should be borne, and so had gone. + +Slowly his boat the languid breeze obeyed, + Although the stream that that light burden bore +Was like the level path the angels made, + Through the rough sea, to Arran's blessed shore; +And from the rosy clouds the light airs fanned, + And from the rich reflection that they gave, +Like good Scothinus, had he reached his hand, + He might have plucked a garland from the wave. + +And now the noon in purple splendour blazed, + The gorgeous clouds in slow procession filed; +The youth leaned o'er with listless eyes and gazed + Down through the waves on which the blue heavens smiled: +What sudden fear his gasping breath doth drown! + What hidden wonder fires his startled eyes! +Down in the deep, full many a fathom down, + A great and glorious city buried lies. + +Not like those villages with rude-built walls, + That raise their humble roofs round every coast, +But holding marble basilics and halls, + Such as imperial Rome herself might boast. +There was the palace and the poor man's home, + And upstart glitter and old-fashioned gloom, +The spacious porch, the nicely rounded dome, + The hero's column, and the martyr's tomb. + +There was the cromleach with its circling stones; + There the green rath and the round narrow tower; +There was the prison whence the captive's groans + Had many a time moaned in the midnight hour. +Beneath the graceful arch the river flowed, + Around the walls the sparkling waters ran, +The golden chariot rolled along the road-- + All, all was there except the face of man. + +The wondering youth had neither thought nor word, + He felt alone the power and will to die; +His little bark seemed like an outstretched bird, + Floating along that city's azure sky. +It joyed that youth the battle's storm to brave, + And yet he would have perished with affright, +Had not the breeze, rippling the lucid wave, + Concealed the buried city from his sight. + +He reached the shore; the rumour was too true-- + Ethna--his Ethna--would be God's alone +In one brief month; for which the maid withdrew, + To seek for strength before his blessed throne. +Was it the fire that on his bosom preyed, + Or the temptation of the Fiend abhorred, +That made him vow to snatch the white-veiled maid + Even from the very altar of her Lord? + +The first of June, that festival of flowers, + Came, like a goddess, o'er the meadows green! +And all the children of the spring-tide showers + Rose from their grassy beds to hail their Queen. +A song of joy, a pæan of delight, + Rose from the myriad life in the tall grass, +When the young Dawn, fresh from the sleep of night, + Glanced at her blushing face in Ocean's glass. + +Ethna awoke--a second--brighter dawn-- + Her mother's fondling voice breathed in her ear; +Quick from her couch she started as a fawn + Bounds from the heather when her dam is near. +Each clasped the other in a long embrace-- + Each know the other's heart did beat and bleed-- +Each kissed the warm tears from the other's face, + And gave the consolation she did need. + +Oh! bitterest sacrifice the heart can make-- + That of a mother of her darling child-- +That of a child, who, for her Saviour's sake, + Leaves the fond face that o'er her cradle smiled. +They who may think that God doth never need + So great, so sad a sacrifice as this, +While they take glory in their easier creed, + Will feel and own the sacrifice it is. + +All is prepared--the sisters in the choir-- + The mitred abbot on his crimson throne-- +The waxen tapers, with their pallid fire + Poured o'er the sacred cup and altar-stone-- +The upturned eyes, glistening with pious tears-- + The censer's fragrant vapour floating o'er; +Now all is hushed, for, lo! the maid appears, + Entering with solemn step the sacred door. + +She moved as moves the moon, radiant and pale, + Through the calm night, wrapped in a silvery cloud; +The jewels of her dress shone through her veil, + As shine the stars through their thin vaporous shroud; +The brighter jewels of her eyes were hid + Beneath their smooth white caskets arching o'er, +Which, by the trembling of each ivory lid, + Seemed conscious of the treasures that they bore. + +She reached the narrow porch and the tall door, + Her trembling foot upon the sill was placed-- +Her snowy veil swept the smooth-sanded floor-- + Her cold hands chilled the bosom they embraced. +Who is this youth, whose forehead, like a book, + Bears many a deep-traced character of pain? +Who looks for pardon as the damned may look-- + That ever pray, and know they pray in vain. + +'Tis he, the wretched youth--the Demon's prey; + One sudden bound, and he is at her side-- +One piercing shriek, and she has swooned away, + Dim are her eyes, and cold her heart's warm tide. +Horror and terror seize the startled crowd; + The sinewy hands are nerveless with affright; +When, as the wind beareth a summer cloud, + The youth bears off the maiden from their sight. + +Close to the place the stream rushed roaring by, + His little boat lay moored beneath the bank, +Hid from the shore, and from the gazer's eye, + By waving reeds and water-willows dank. +Hither, with flying feet and glowing brow, + He fled, as quick as fancies in a dream-- +Placed the insensate maiden in the prow-- + Pushed from the shore, and gained the open stream. + +Scarce had he left the river's foamy edge, + When sudden darkness fell on hill and plain; +The angry sun, shocked at the sacrilege, + Fled from the heavens with all his golden train; +The stream rushed quicker, like a man afeared; + Down swept the storm and clove its breast of green, +And though the calm and brightness reappeared + The youth and maiden never more were seen. + +Whether the current in its strong arms bore + Their bark to green Hy-Brasail's fairy halls, +Or whether, as is told along that shore, + They sunk within the buried city's walls; +Whether through some Elysian clime they stray, + Or o'er their whitened bones the river rolls;-- +Whate'er their fate, my brothers, let us pray + To God for peace and pardon to their souls. + +Such was the brother's tale of earthly love-- + He ceased, and sadly bowed his reverend head: +For us, we wept, and raised our eyes above, + And sang the <i>De Profundis</i> for the dead. +A freshening breeze played on our moistened cheeks, + The far horizon oped its walls of light, +And lo! with purple hills and sun-bright peaks + A glorious isle gleamed on our gladdened sight, +</pre> +<center> +<h4>T<font size="-1">HE</font> P<font size="-1">ARADISE OF</font> + B<font size="-1">IRDS</font>.</h4> +</center> +<p>"Post resurrectionis diem dominicæ navigabitis ad altam +insulam ad occidentalem plagam, quæ vocatur + P<font size="-2">ARADISUS</font> +A<font size="-2">VIUM</font>."—"Life of St. Brendan," in Capgrave, + fol. 45.</p> +<pre> +It was the fairest and the sweetest scene-- + The freshest, sunniest, smiling land that e'er +Held o'er the waves its arms of sheltering green + Unto the sea and storm-vexed mariner:-- +No barren waste its gentle bosom scarred, + Nor suns that burn, nor breezes winged with ice, +Nor jagged rocks (Nature's grey ruins) marred + The perfect features of that Paradise. + +The verdant turf spreads from the crystal marge + Of the clear stream, up the soft-swelling hill, +Rose-bearing shrubs and stately cedars large + All o'er the land the pleasant prospect fill. +Unnumbered birds their glorious colours fling + Among the boughs that rustle in the breeze, +As if the meadow-flowers had taken wing + And settled on the green o'er-arching trees. + +Oh! Ita, Ita, 'tis a grievous wrong, + That man commits who uninspired presumes +To sing the heavenly sweetness of their song-- + To paint the glorious tinting of their plumes-- +Plumes bright as jewels that from diadems + Fling over golden thrones their diamond rays-- +Bright, even as bright as those three mystic gems, + The angel bore thee in thy childhood's days.[60] + +There dwells the bird that to the farther west + Bears the sweet message of the coming spring;[61] +June's blushing roses paint his prophet breast, + And summer skies gleam from his azure wing. +While winter prowls around the neighbouring seas, + The happy bird dwells in his cedar nest, +Then flies away, and leaves his favourite trees + Unto this brother of the graceful crest.[62] + +Birds that with us are clothed in modest brown, + There wear a splendour words cannot express; +The sweet-voiced thrush beareth a golden crown,[63] + And even the sparrow boasts a scarlet dress.[64] +There partial nature fondles and illumes + The plainest offspring that her bosom bears; +The golden robin flies on fiery plumes,[65] + And the small wren a purple ruby wears.[66] + +Birds, too, that even in our sunniest hours, + Ne'er to this cloudy land one moment stray, +Whose brilliant plumes, fleeting and fair as flowers, + Come with the flowers, and with the flowers decay.[67] +The Indian bird, with hundred eyes, that throws + From his blue neck the azure of the skies, +And his pale brother of the northern snows, + Bearing white plumes, mirrored with brilliant eyes.[68] + +Oft in the sunny mornings have I seen + Bright-yellow birds, of a rich lemon hue, +Meeting in crowds upon the branches green, + And sweetly singing all the morning through.[69] +And others, with their heads greyish and dark, + Pressing their cinnamon cheeks to the old trees, +And striking on the hard, rough, shrivelled bark, + Like conscience on a bosom ill at ease.[70] + +And diamond birds chirping their single notes, + Now 'mid the trumpet-flower's deep blossoms seen, +Now floating brightly on with fiery throats, + Small-winged emeralds of golden green;[71] +And other larger birds with orange cheeks, + A many-colour-painted chattering crowd, +Prattling for ever with their curved beaks, + And through the silent woods screaming aloud.[72] + +Colour and form may be conveyed in words, + But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains +That from the throats of these celestial birds + Rang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains. +There was the meadow-lark, with voice as sweet, + But robed in richer raiment than our own; +And as the moon smiled on his green retreat, + The painted nightingale sang out alone.[73] + +Words cannot echo music's winged note, + One bird alone exhausts their utmost power; +'Tis that strange bird whose many-voicéd throat + Mocks all his brethren of the woodland bower; +To whom indeed the gift of tongues is given, + The musical rich tongues that fill the grove, +Now like the lark dropping his notes from heaven, + Now cooing the soft earth-notes of the dove.[74] + +Oft have I seen him, scorning all control, + Winging his arrowy flight rapid and strong, +As if in search of his evanished soul, + Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song; +And as I wandered on, and upward gazed, + Half lost in admiration, half in fear, +I left the brothers wondering and amazed, + Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near. + +Was it a revelation or a dream?-- + That these bright birds as angels once did dwell +In heaven with starry Lucifer supreme, + Half sinned with him, and with him partly fell; +That in this lesser paradise they stray. + Float through its air, and glide its streams along, +And that the strains they sing each happy day + Rise up to God like morn and even song.[75] +</pre> +<center> +<h4>T<font size="-1">HE</font> P<font size="-1">ROMISED</font> + L<font size="-1">AND</font>.</h4> +</center> +<p>[The earlier stanzas of this description of Paradise are +principally founded upon the Anglo-Saxon version of the poem +<i>De Phenice,</i> ascribed to Lactantius, and which is at +least as old as the earlier part of the eleventh century.]</p> +<pre> +As on this world the young man turns his eyes, + When forced to try the dark sea of the grave, +Thus did we gaze upon that Paradise, + Fading, as we were borne across the wave. +And, as a brighter world dawns by degrees + Upon Eternity's serenest strand, +Thus, having passed through dark and gloomy seas, + At length we reached the long-sought Promised Land. + +The wind had died upon the Ocean's breast, + When, like a silvery vein through the dark ore, +A smooth bright current, gliding to the west, + Bore our light bark to that enchanted shore. +It was a lovely plain--spacious and fair, + And bless'd with all delights that earth can hold, +Celestial odours filled the fragrant air + That breathed around that green and pleasant wold. + +There may not rage of frost, nor snow, nor rain, + Injure the smallest and most delicate flower, +Nor fall of hail wound the fair, healthful plain, + Nor the warm weather, nor the winter's shower. +That noble land is all with blossoms flowered, + Shed by the summer breezes as they pass; +Less leaves than blossoms on the trees are showered, + And flowers grow thicker in the fields than grass. + +Nor hills, nor mountains, there stand high and steep, + Nor stony cliffs tower o'er the frightened waves, +Nor hollow dells, where stagnant waters sleep, + Nor hilly risings, nor dark mountain caves; +Nothing deformed upon its bosom lies, + Nor on its level breast rests aught unsmooth, +But the noble filed flourishes 'neath the skies, + Blooming for ever in perpetual youth. + +That glorious land stands higher o'er the sea, + By twelve-fold fathom measure, than we deem +The highest hills beneath the heavens to be. + There the bower glitters, and the green woods gleam. +All o'er that pleasant plain, calm and serene, + The fruits ne'er fall, but, hung by God's own hand, +Cling to the trees that stand for ever green, + Obedient to their Maker's first command. + +Summer and winter are the woods the same, + Hung with bright fruits and leaves that never fade; +Such will they be, beyond the reach of flame, + Till Heaven, and Earth, and Time, shall have decayed. +Here might Iduna in her fond pursuit, + As fabled by the northern sea-born men, +Gather her golden and immortal fruit, + That brings their youth back to the gods again. + +Of old, when God, to punish sinful pride, + Sent round the deluged world the ocean flood, +When all the earth lay 'neath the vengeful tide, + This glorious land above the waters stood. +Such shall it be at last, even as at first, + Until the coming of the final doom, +When the dark chambers--men's death homes shall burst, + And man shall rise to judgment from the tomb. + +There there is never enmity, nor rage, + Nor poisoned calumny, nor envy's breath, +Nor shivering poverty, nor decrepit age, + Nor loss of vigour, nor the narrow death; +Nor idiot laughter, nor the tears men weep, + Nor painful exile from one's native soil, +Nor sin, nor pain, nor weariness, nor sleep, + Nor lust of riches, nor the poor man's toil. + +There never falls the rain-cloud as with us, + Nor gapes the earth with the dry summer's thirst, +But liquid streams, wondrously curious, + Out of the ground with fresh fair bubbling burst. +Sea-cold and bright the pleasant waters glide + Over the soil, and through the shady bowers; +Flowers fling their coloured radiance o'er the tide, + And the bright streams their crystal o'er the flowers. + +Such was the land for man's enjoyment made, + When from this troubled life his soul doth wend: +Such was the land through which entranced we strayed, + For fifteen days, nor reached its bound nor end. +Onward we wandered in a blissful dream, + Nor thought of food, nor needed earthly rest; +Until, at length, we reached a mighty stream, + Whose broad bright waves flowed from the east to west. + +We were about to cross its placid tide, + When, lo! an angel on our vision broke, +Clothed in white, upon the further side + He stood majestic, and thus sweetly spoke: +"Father, return, thy mission now is o'er; + God, who did call thee here, now bids thee go, +Return in peace unto thy native shore, + And tell the mighty secrets thou dost know. + +"In after years, in God's own fitting time, + This pleasant land again shall re-appear; +And other men shall preach the truths sublime, + To the benighted people dwelling here. +But ere that hour this land shall all be made, + For mortal man, a fitting, natural home, +Then shall the giant mountain fling its shade, + And the strong rock stem the white torrent's foam. + +"Seek thy own isle--Christ's newly-bought domain, + Which Nature with an emerald pencil paints: +Such as it is, long, long shall it remain, + The school of Truth, the College of the Saints, +The student's bower, the hermit's calm retreat, + The stranger's home, the hospitable hearth, +The shrine to which shall wander pilgrim feet + From all the neighbouring nations of the earth. + +"But in the end upon that land shall fall + A bitter scourge, a lasting flood of tears, +When ruthless tyranny shall level all + The pious trophies of its early years: +Then shall this land prove thy poor country's friend, + And shine a second Eden in the west; +Then shall this shore its friendly arms extend, + And clasp the outcast exile to its breast." + +He ceased and vanished from our dazzled sight, + While harps and sacred hymns rang sweetly o'er +For us again we winged our homeward flight + O'er the great ocean to our native shore; +And as a proof of God's protecting hand, + And of the wondrous tidings that we bear, +The fragrant perfume of that heavenly land + Clings to the very garments that we wear.[76] +</pre> +<p><sup>53</sup> So called from the + number of holy men and women formerly inhabiting it.</p> +<p><sup>54</sup> The Atlantic was so named by + the ancient Irish.</p> +<p><sup>55</sup> Ardfert.</p> +<p><sup>56</sup> The puffin + (Anas leucopsis), called in Irish <i>girrinna.</i>  It was the + popular belief that these birds grew out of driftwood.</p> +<p><sup>57</sup> St. Fanchea.</p> +<p><sup>58</sup> Galway Bay.</p> +<p><sup>59</sup> These stanzas are a paraphrase of the hymn "Ave Maris + Stella."</p> +<p><sup>60</sup> An angel was said to have presented her with three + precious stones, which, he explained, were emblematic of the + Blessed Trinity, by whom she would be always visited and + protected.</p> +<p><sup>61</sup> The blue bird.</p> +<p><sup>62</sup> The cedar bird.</p> +<p><sup>63</sup> The golden-crowned thrush.</p> +<p><sup>64</sup> The scarlet sparrow or tanager.</p> +<p><sup>65</sup> The Baltimore oriole or fire-bird.</p> +<p><sup>66</sup> The ruby-crowned wren.</p> +<p><sup>67</sup> Peacocks.</p> +<p><sup>68</sup> The white peacock.</p> +<p><sup>69</sup> The yellow bird or goldfinch.</p> +<p><sup>70</sup> The gold-winged woodpecker.</p> +<p><sup>71</sup> Humming birds.</p> +<p><sup>72</sup> The Carolina parrot.</p> +<p><sup>73</sup> The grosbeak or red bird, sometimes called + the Virginia nightingale.</p> +<p><sup>74</sup> The mocking-bird.</p> +<p><sup>75</sup> See the "Lyfe of Saynt Brandon" in the Golden Legend, + published by Wynkyn de Worde, 1483; fol. 357.</p> +<p><sup>76</sup> "Nonne cognoscitis in odore vestimentorum nostrorum + quod in Paradiso Domini fuimus."—<i>Colgan.</i></p> +<p><a name="p106" id="p106"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE FORAY OF CON O'DONNELL.</h3> +<h4><font size="-1">A.D.</font> 1495.</h4> +</center> +<p>[Con, the son of Hugh Roe O'Donnell, with his small-powerful +force,—and the reason Con's force was called the +small-powerful force was, because he was always in the habit +of mustering a force which did not exceed twelve score of +well-equipped and experienced battle-axe-men, and sixty chosen +active horsemen, fit for battle,—marched with the forementioned +force to the residence of MacJohn of the Glynnes (in +the county of Antrim); for Con had been informed that +MacJohn had in possession the finest woman, steed, and +hound, of any other person in his neighbourhood.  He sent a +messenger for the steed before that time, and was refused, +although Con had, at the same time, promised it to one of his +own people.  Con did not delay, and got over every difficult +pass with his small-powerful force, without battle or obstruction, +until he arrived in the night at the house of MacJohn, +whom he, in the first place, took prisoner, and his wife, steed, +and hound, and all his property, were under Con's control, for +he found the same steed, with sixteen others, in the town on +that occasion.  All the Glynnes were plundered on the following +day by Con's people, but he afterwards, however, made +perfect restitution of all property, to whomsoever it belonged, +to MacJohn's wife, and he set her husband free to her after he +had passed the Bann westward.  He brought with him the +steed and great booty and spoils, into Tirhugh, and ordered +the cattle-prey to be let out on the pasturage.—<i>Annals of the +Four Masters,</i> translated by Owen Connellan, Esq., p. 331-2.  +This poem, founded upon the foregoing passage (and in which +the hero acts with more generosity than the Annals warrant) +was written and published in the Dublin University Magazine +before the appearance of Mr. O'Donovan's "Annals of the +Kingdom of Ireland,"—the magnificent work published in +1848 by Messrs. Hodges and Smith, of this city.  For Mr. +O'Donovan's version of this passage, which differs from that of +the former translator in two or three important particulars, see +the second volume of his work, p. 1219.  The principal castle +of the O'Donnell's was at Donegal.  The building, of which +some portions still exist, was erected in the twelfth century.  +The banqueting-hall, which is the scene of the opening portion +of this ballad, is still preserved, and commands some beautiful +views.]</p> +<pre> +The evening shadows sweetly fall +Along the hills of Donegal, +Sweetly the rising moonbeams play +Along the shores of Inver Bay,[77] +As smooth and white Lough Eask[78] expands +As Rosapenna's[79] silvery sands, +And quiet reigns all o'er thy fields, +Clan Dalaigh[80] of the golden shields. + +The fairy gun[81] is heard no more +To boom within the cavern'd shore, +With smoother roll the torrents flow +Adown the rocks of Assaroe;[82] +Securely, till the coming day, +The red deer couch in far Glenvay, +And all is peace and calm around +O'Donnell's castled moat and mound. + +But in the hall there feast to-night +Full many a kern and many a knight, +And gentle dames, and clansmen strong, +And wandering bards, with store of song: +The board is piled with smoking kine, +And smooth bright cups of Spanish wine, +And fish and fowl from stream and shaw, +And fragrant mead and usquebaugh. + +The chief is at the table's head-- +'Tis Con, the son of Hugh the Red-- +The heir of Conal Golban's line;[83] +With pleasure flushed, with pride and wine, +He cries, "Our dames adjudge it wrong, +To end our feast without the song; +Have we no bard the strain to raise? +No foe to taunt, no maid to praise? + +"Where beauty dwells the bard should dwell, +What sweet lips speak the bard should tell; +'Tis he should look for starry eyes, +And tell love's watchers where they rise: +To-night, if lips and eyes could do, +Bards were not wanting in Tirhugh; +For where have lips a rosier light, +And where are eyes more starry bright?" + +Then young hearts beat along the board, +To praise the maid that each adored, +And lips as young would fain disclose +The love within; but one arose, +Gray as the rocks beside the main,-- +Gray as the mist upon the plain,-- +A thoughtful, wandering, minstrel man, +And thus the aged bard began:-- + +"O Con, benevolent hand of peace! + O tower of valour firm and true! +Like mountain fawns, like snowy fleece, + Move the sweet maidens of Tirhugh. +Yet though through all thy realm I've strayed, + Where green hills rise and white waves fall, +I have not seen so fair a maid + As once I saw by Cushendall.[84] + +"O Con, thou hospitable Prince! + Thou, of the open heart and hand, +Full oft I've seen the crimson tints + Of evening on the western land. +I've wandered north, I've wandered south, + Throughout Tirhugh in hut and hall, +But never saw so sweet a mouth + As whispered love by Cushendall. + +"O Con, munificent gifts! + I've seen the full round harvest moon +Gleam through the shadowy autumn drifts + Upon thy royal rock of Doune.[85] +I've seen the stars that glittering lie + O'er all the night's dark mourning pall, +But never saw so bright an eye + As lit the glens of Cushendall. + +"I've wandered with a pleasant toil, + And still I wander in my dreams; +Even from the white-stoned beach, Loch Foyle, + To Desmond of the flowing streams. +I've crossed the fair green plains of Meath, + To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall; +But never saw such pearly teeth, + As her's that smiled by Cushendall. + +"O Con! thou'rt rich in yellow gold, + Thy fields are filled with lowing kine, +Within they castles wealth untold, + Within thy harbours fleets of wine; +But yield not, Con, to worldly pride + Thou may'st be rich, but hast not all; +Far richer he who for his bride + Has won fair Anne of Cushendall. + +"She leans upon a husband's arm, + Surrounded by a valiant clan, +In Antrim's Glynnes, by fair Glenarm, + Beyond the pearly-paven Bann; +'Mid hazel woods no stately tree + Looks up to heaven more graceful-tall, +When summer clothes its boughs, than she, + MacDonnell's wife of Cushendall!" + +The bard retires amid the throng, +No sweet applause rewards his song, +No friendly lip that guerdon breathes, +To bard more sweet than golden wreaths. +It might have been the minstrel's art +Had lost the power to move the heart, +It might have been his harp had grown +Too old to yield its wonted tone. + +But no, if hearts were cold and hard, +'Twas not the fault of harp or bard; +It was no false or broken sound +That failed to move the clansmen round. +Not these the men, nor these the times, +To nicely weigh the worth of rhymes; +'Twas what he said that made them chill, +And not his singing well or ill. + +Already had the stranger band +Of Saxons swept the weakened land, +Already on the neighbouring hills +They named anew a thousand rills, +"Our fairest castles," pondered Con, +"Already to the foe are gone, +Our noblest forests feed the flame, +And now we lose our fairest dame." + +But though his cheek was white with rage, +He seemed to smile, and cried--"O Sage! +O honey-spoken bard of truth! +MacDonnell is a valiant youth. +We long have been the Saxon's prey-- +Why not the Scot as well as they? +He's of as good a robber line +As any a Burke or Geraldine. + +"From Insi Gall,[86] so speaketh fame, +From Insi Gall his people came; +From Insi Gall, where storm winds roar +Beyond the gray Albin's icy shore. +His grandsire and his grandsire's son, +Full soon fat herds and pastures won; +But, by Columba! were we men, +We'd send the whole brood back again! + +"Oh! had we iron hands to dare, +As we have waxen hearts to bear, +Oh! had we manly blood to shed, +Or even to tinge our cheeks with red, +No bard could say as you have said, +One of the race of Somerled-- +A base intruder from the Isles-- +Basks in our island's sunniest smiles! + +"But, not to mar our feast to-night +With what to-morrow's sword may right, +O Bard of many songs! again +Awake thy sweet harp's silvery strain. +If beauty decks with peerless charm +MacDonnell's wife in fair Glenarm, +Say does there bound in Antrim's meads +A steed to match O'Donnell's steeds?" + +Submissive doth the bard incline + His reverend head, and cries, "O Con, +Thou heir of Conal Golban's line, + I've sang the fair wife of MacJohn; +You'll frown again as late you frowned, + But truth will out when lips are freed; +There's not a steed on Irish ground + To stand beside MacDonnell's steed! + +"Thy horses o'er Eargals' plains, + Like meteors stars their red eyes gleam; +With silver hoofs and broidered reins, + They mount the hill and swim the stream; +But like the wind through Barnesmore, + Or white-maned wave through Carrig-Rede,[87] +Or like a sea-bird to the shore, + Thus swiftly sweeps MacDonnell's steed! + +"A thousand graceful steeds had Fin, + Within lost Almhaim's fairy hall, +A thousand steeds as sleek of skin + As ever graced a chieftain's stall. +With gilded bridles oft they flew, + Young eagles in their lightning speed, +Strong as the cataract of Hugh,[88] + So swift and strong MacDonnell's steed!" + +Without the hearty word of praise, +Without the kindly smiling gaze, +Without the friendly hand to greet, +The daring bard resumes his seat. +Even in the hospitable face +Of Con, the anger you could trace. +But generous Con his wrath suppressed, +For Owen was Clan Dalaigh's guest. + +"Now, by Columba!" Con exclaimed, +"Methinks this Scot should be ashamed +To snatch at once, in sateless greed, +The fairest maid and finest steed; +My realm is dwindled in mine eyes, +I know not what to praise or prize, +And even my noble dog, O Bard, +Now seems unworthy my regard!" + +"When comes the raven of the sea + To nestle on an alien strand, +Oh! ever, ever will he be + The master of the subject land. +The fairest dame, he holdeth <i>her</i>-- + For him the noblest steed doth bound--; +Your dog is but a household cur, + Compared to John MacDonnell's hound! + +"As fly the shadows o'er the grass, + He flies with step as light and sure, +He hunts the wolf through Trosstan pass, + And starts the deer by Lisànoure! +The music of the Sabbath bells, + O Con, has not a sweeter sound +Than when along the valley swells + The cry of John MacDonnell's hound. + +"His stature tall, his body long, + His back like night, his breast like snow, +His fore-leg pillar-like and strong, + His hind-leg like a bended bow; +Rough, curling hair, head long and thin, + His ear a leaf so small and round: +Not Bran, the favourite hound of Fin, + Could rival John MacDonnell's hound. + +"O Con! thy bard will sing no more, + There is a fearful time at hand; +The Scot is on the northern shore, + The Saxon in the eastern land; +The hour comes on with quicker flight, + When all who live on Irish ground +Must render to the stranger's might + Both maid and wife, and steed and hound!" + +The trembling bard again retires, +But now he lights a thousand fires; +The pent-up flame bursts out at length, +In all its burning, tameless strength. +You'd think each clansman's foe was by, +So sternly flashed each angry eye; +You'd think 'twas in the battle's clang +O'Donnell's thundering accents rang! + +"No! by my sainted kinsman,[89] no! +This foul disgrace must not be so; +No, by the Shrines of Hy, I've sworn, +This foulest wrong must not be borne. +A better steed!--a fairer wife! +Was ever truer cause of strife? +A swifter hound!--a better steed! +Columba! these are cause indeed!" + +Again, like spray from mountain rill, +Up started Con: "By Collum Kille, +And by the blessed light of day, +This matter brooketh no delay. +The moon is down, the morn is up, +Come, kinsmen, drain a parting cup, +And swear to hold our next carouse, +With John MacJohn MacDonnell's spouse! + +"We've heard the song the bard has sung, +And as a healing herb among +Most poisonous weeds may oft be found, +So of this woman, steed, and hound; +The song has burned into our hearts, +And yet a lesson it imparts, +Had we but sense to read aright +The galling words we heard to-night. + +"What lesson does the good hound teach? +Oh, to be faithful each to each! +What lesson gives the noble steed? +Oh! to be swift in thought and deed! +What lesson gives the peerless wife? +Oh! there is victory after strife; +Sweet is the triumph, rich the spoil, +Pleasant the slumber after toil!" + +They drain the cup, they leave the hall, +They seek the armoury and stall, +The shield re-echoing to the spear +Proclaims the foray far and near; +And soon around the castles gate +Full sixty steeds impatient wait, +And every steed a knight upon, +The strong, small-powerful force of Con! + +Their lances in the red dawn flash, +As down by Easky's side they dash; +Their quilted jackets shine the more, +From gilded leather broidered o'er; +With silver spurs, and silken rein, +And costly riding-shoes from Spain; +Ah! much thou hast to fear, MacJohn, +The strong, small-powerful force of Con! + +As borne upon autumnal gales, +Wild whirring gannets pierce the sails +Of barks that sweep by Arran's shore,[90] +Thus swept the train through Barnesmore. +Through many a varied scene they ran, +By Castle Fin, and fair Strabane, +By many a hill, and many a clan, +Across the Foyle and o'er the Bann:-- + +Then stopping in their eagle flight, +They waited for the coming night, +And then, as Antrim's rivers rush +Straight from their founts with sudden gush, +Nor turn their strong, brief streams aside, +Until the sea receives their tide; +Thus rushed upon the doomed MacJohn +The swift, small-powerful force of Con. + +They took the castle by surprise, +No star was in the angry skies, +The moon lay dead within her shroud +Of thickly-folded ashen cloud; +They found the steed within his stall, +The hound within the oaken hall, +The peerless wife of thousand charms, +Within her slumbering husband's arms: + +The bard had pictured to the life +The beauty of MacDonnell's wife; +Not Evir[91] could with her compare +For snowy hand and shining hair; +The glorious banner morn unfurls +Were dark beside her golden curls; +And yet the blackness of her eye +Was darker than the moonless sky! + +If lovers listen to my lay, +Description is but thrown away; +If lovers read this antique tale, +What need I speak of red or pale? +The fairest form and brightest eye +Are simply those for which they sigh; +The truest picture is but faint +To what a lover's heart can paint. + +Well, she was fair, and Con was bold, +But in the strange, wild days of old; +To one rough hand was oft decreed +The noblest and the blackest deed. +'Twas pride that spurred O'Donnell on, +But still a generous heart had Con; +He wished to show that he was strong, +And not to do a bootless wrong. + +But now there's neither thought nor time +For generous act or bootless crime; +For other cares the thoughts demand +Of the small-powerful victor band. +They tramp along the old oak floors, +They burst the strong-bound chamber doors; +In all the pride of lawless power, +Some seek the vault, and some the tower. + +And some from out the postern pass, +And find upon the dew-wet grass +Full many a head of dappled deer, +And many a full-ey'd brown-back'd steer, +And heifers of the fragrant skins, +The pride of Antrim's grassy glynns, +Which with their spears they drive along, +A numerous, startled, bellowing throng. + +They leave the castle stripped and bare, +Each has his labour, each his share; +For some have cups, and some have plate, +And some have scarlet cloaks of state, +And some have wine, and some have ale, +And some have coats of iron mail, +And some have helms, and some have spears, +And all have lowing cows and steers! + +Away! away! the morning breaks +O'er Antrim's hundred hills and lakes; +Away! away! the dawn begins +To gild gray Antrim's deepest glynns; +The rosy steeds of morning stop, +As if to gaze on Collin top; +Ere they have left it bare and gray, +O'Donnell must be far away! + +The chieftain on a raven steed, +Himself the peerless dame doth lead, +Now like a pallid, icy corse, +And lifts her on her husband's horse; +His left hand holds his captive's rein, +His right is on the black steed's mane, +And from the bridle to the ground +Hangs the long leash that binds the hound. + +And thus before his victor clan, +Rides Con O'Donnell in the van; +Upon his left the drooping dame, +Upon his right, in wrath and shame, +With one hand free and one hand tied, +And eyes firm fixed upon his bride, +Vowing dread vengeance yet on Con, +Rides scowling, silent, stern MacJohn. + +They move with steps as swift as still, +'Twixt Collin mount and Slemish hill, +They glide along the misty plain, +And ford the sullen muttering Maine; +Some drive the cattle o'er the hills, +And some along the dried-up rills; +But still a strong force doth surround +The chiefs, the dame, the steed, and hound. + +Thus ere the bright-faced day arose, +The Bann lay broad between the foes. +But how to paint the inward scorn, +The self-reproach of those that morn, +Who waking found their chieftain gone, +The cattle swept from field and bawn, +The chieftain's castle stormed and drained, +And, worse than all, their honour stained! + +But when the women heard that Anne, +The queen, the glory of the clan +Was carried off by midnight foes, +Heavens! such despairing screams arose, +Such shrieks of agony and fright, +As only can be heard at night, +When Clough-i-Stookan's mystic rock +The wail of drowning men doth mock.[92] + +But thirty steeds are in the town, +And some are like the ripe heath, brown, +Some like the alder-berries, black, +Some like the vessel's foamy track; +But be they black, or brown, or white, +They are as swift as fawns in flight, +No quicker speed the sea gull hath +When sailing through the Gray Man's Path.[93] + +Soon are they saddled, soon they stand, +Ready to own the rider's hand, +Ready to dash with loosened rein +Up the steep hill, and o'er the plain; +Ready, without the prick of spurs, +To strike the gold cups from the furze: +And now they start with winged pace, +God speed them in their noble chase! + +By this time, on Ben Bradagh's height, +Brave Con had rested in his flight, +Beneath him, in the horizon's blue, +Lay his own valleys of Tirhugh. +It may have been the thought of home, +While resting on that mossy dome, +It may have been his native trees +That woke his mind to thoughts like these. + +"The race is o'er, the spoil is won, +And yet what boots it all I've done? +What boots it to have snatched away +This steed, and hound, and cattle-prey? +What boots it, with an iron hand +To tear a chieftain from his land, +And dim that sweetest light that lies +In a fond wife's adoring eyes? + +"If thus I madly teach my clan, +What can I hope from beast or man? +Fidelity a crime is found, +Or else why chain this faithful hound? +Obedience, too, a crime must be, +Or else this steed were roaming free; +And woman's love the worst of sins, +Or Anne were queen of Antrim's Glynnes! + +"If, when I reach my home to-night, +I see the yellow moonbeam's light +Gleam through the broken gate and wall +Of my strong fort of Donegal; +If I behold my kinsmen slain, +My barns devoid of golden grain, +How can I curse the pirate crew +For doing what this hour I do? + +"Well, in Columba's blessed name, +This day shall be a day of fame,-- +A day when Con in victory's hour +Gave up the untasted sweets of power; +Gave up the fairest dame on earth, +The noblest steed that e'er wore girth, +The noblest hound of Irish breed, +And all to do a generous deed." + +He turned and loosed MacDonnell's hand, +And led him where his steed doth stand; +He placed the bride of peerless charms +Within his longing, outstretched arms; +He freed the hound from chain and band, +Which, leaping, licked his master's hand; +And thus, while wonder held the crowd, +The generous chieftain spoke aloud:-- + +"MacJohn, I heard in wrathful hour + That thou in Antrim's glynnes possessed +The fairest pearl, the sweetest flower + That ever bloomed on Erin's breast. +I burned to think such prize should fall + To any Scotch or Saxon man, +But find that Nature makes us all + The children of one world-spread clan. + +"Within thy arms thou now dost hold + A treasure of more worth and cost +Than all the thrones and crowns of gold + That valour ever won or lost; +Thine is that outward perfect form, + Thine, too, the subtler inner life, +The love that doth that bright shape warm: + Take back, MacJohn, thy peerless wife!" + +"They praised thy steed. With wrath and grief + I felt my heart within me bleed, +That any but an Irish chief + Should press the back of such a steed; +I might to yonder smiling land + The noble beast reluctant lead; +But, no!--he'd miss thy guiding hand-- + Take back, MacJohn, thy noble steed. + +"The praises of thy matchless hound, + Burned in my breast like acrid wine; +I swore no chief on Irish ground + Should own a nobler hound than mine; +'Twas rashly sworn, and must not be, + He'd pine to hear the well-known sound, +With which thou call'st him to thy knee, + Take back, MacJohn, thy matchless hound. + +"MacJohn, I stretch to yours and you + This hand beneath God's blessed sun, +And for the wrong that I might do + Forgive the wrong that I have done; +To-morrow all that we have ta'en + Shall doubly, trebly be restored: +The cattle to the grassy plain, + The goblets to the oaken board. + +"My people from our richest meads + Shall drive the best our broad lands hold +For every steed a hundred steeds, + For every steer a hundred-fold; +For every scarlet cloak of state + A hundred cloaks all stiff with gold; +And may we be with hearts elate + Still older friends as we grow old. + +"Thou'st bravely won an Irish bride-- + An Irish bride of grace and worth-- +Oh! let the Irish nature glide + Into thy heart from this hour forth; +An Irish home thy sword has won, + A new-found mother blessed the strife; +Oh! be that mother's fondest son, + And love the land that gives you life! + +"Betwixt the Isles and Antrim's coast, + The Scotch and Irish waters blend; +But who shall tell, with idle boast, + Where one begins and one doth end? +Ah! when shall that glad moment gleam, + When all our hearts such spell shall feel? +And blend in one broad Irish stream, + On Irish ground for Ireland's weal? + +"Love the dear land in which you live, + Live in the land you ought to love; +Take root, and let your branches give + Fruits to the soil they wave above; +No matter what your foreign name, + No matter what your sires have done, +No matter whence or when you came, + The land shall claim you as a son!" + +As in the azure fields on high, +When Spring lights up the April sky, +The thick battalioned dusky clouds +Fly o'er the plain like routed crowds +Before the sun's resistless might! +Where all was dark, now all is bright; +The very clouds have turned to light, +And with the conquering beams unite! + +Thus o'er the face of John MacJohn +A thousand varying shades have gone; +Jealousy, anger, rage, disdain, +Sweep o'er his brow--a dusky train; +But nature, like the beam of spring, +Chaseth the crowd on sunny wing; +Joy warms his heart, hope lights his eye, +And the dark passions routed fly! + +The hands are clasped--the hound is freed, +Gone is MacJohn with wife and steed, +He meets his spearsmen some few miles, +And turns their scowling frowns to smiles: +At morn the crowded march begins +Of steeds and cattle for the glynnes; +Well for poor Erin's wrongs and griefs, +If thus would join her severed chiefs! +</pre> +<p><sup>77</sup> A beautiful inlet, about six miles west of Donegal.</p> +<p><sup>78</sup> Lough Eask is about two miles from Donegal.  Inglis + describes it as being as pretty a lake, on a small scale, as can + well be imagined.</p> +<p><sup>79</sup> The sands of Rosapenna are described as being composed + of "hills and dales, and undulating swells, smooth, solitary, + and desolate, reflecting the sun from their polished surface," + &c.</p> +<p><sup>80</sup> "Clan Dalaigh" is a name frequently given by Irish writers + to the Clan O'Donnell.</p> +<p><sup>81</sup> The "Fairy Gun" is an orifice in a cliff near Bundoran + (four miles S.W. of Ballyshannon), into which the sea rushes + with a noise like that of artillery, and from which mist, and a + chanting sound, issue in stormy weather.</p> +<p><sup>82</sup> The waterfall at Ballyshannon.</p> +<p><sup>83</sup> The O'Donnells are descended from Conal Golban, son of + Niall of the Nine Hostages.</p> +<p><sup>84</sup> Cushendall is very prettily situated on the eastern coast of + the county Antrim.  This, with all the territory known as the + <i>Glynnes</i> (so called from the intersection of its surface by many + rocky dells), from Glenarm to Ballycastle, was at this time in + the possession of the MacDonnells, a clan of Scotch descent.  + The principal castle of the MacDonnells was at Glenarm.</p> +<p><sup>85</sup> The Rock of Doune, in Kilmacrenan, where the O'Donnells + were inaugurated.</p> +<p><sup>86</sup> The Hebrides.</p> +<p><sup>87</sup> Carrick-a-rede (Carraig-a-Ramhad)—the Rock in the Road + lies off the coast, between Ballycastle and Portrush; a chasm + sixty feet in breadth, and very deep, separates it from the + coast.</p> +<p><sup>88</sup> The waterfall of Assaroe, at Ballyshannon.</p> +<p><sup>89</sup> St. Columba, who was an O'Donnell.</p> +<p><sup>90</sup> "This bird (the Gannet) flys through the ship's sails, + piercing them with his beak."—O'Flaherty's "H-Iar Connaught," + p. 12, published by the Irish Archæological Society.</p> +<p><sup>91</sup> She was the wife of Oisin, the bard, who is said to have + lived and sung for some time at Cushendall, and to have been + buried at Donegal.</p> +<p><sup>92</sup> The Rock of Clough-i-Stookan lies on the shore between + Glenarm and Cushendall; it has some resemblance to a + gigantic human figure.—"The winds whistle through its + crevices like the wailing of mariners in distress."—Hall's + "Ireland," vol. iii., p. 133.</p> +<p><sup>93</sup> "The Gray Man's Path" <i>(Casan an fir Leith)</i> is a deep + and remarkable chasm, dividing the promontory of Fairhead + (or Benmore) in two.</p> +<p><a name="p124" id="p124"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE BELL-FOUNDER.</h3> +<h5>PART I.—LABOUR AND HOPE.</h5> +</center> +<pre> +In that land where the heaven-tinted pencil giveth shape to the splendour of + dreams, +Near Florence, the fairest of cities, and Arno, the sweetest of streams, +'Neath those hills[94] whence the race of the Geraldine wandered in ages long + since, +For ever to rule over Desmond and Erin as martyr and prince, +Lived Paolo, the young Campanaro,[95] the pride of his own little vale-- +Hope changed the hot breath of his furnace as into a sea-wafted gale; +Peace, the child of Employment, was with him, with prattle so soothing and + sweet, +And Love, while revealing the future, strewed the sweet roses under his feet. + +Ah! little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills, +Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills. +Ah! little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased slumber enjoys, +Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that destroys, +Nothing to hope for, or labour for; nothing to sigh for, or gain; +Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain; +Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with its breath: +Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, and death! + +But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men, +Who, with hammer, or chisel, or pencil, with rudder, or ploughshare, or pen, +Laboureth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life, +Winning home and its darling divinities--love-worshipped children and wife, +Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the sharp chisel rings, +And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of kings; +He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his race, +Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the strong world in the face. + +And such was young Paolo! The morning, ere yet the faint starlight had gone, +To the loud-ringing workshop beheld him move joyfully light-footed on. +In the glare and the roar of the furnace he toiled till the evening star + burned, +And then back again through that valley, as glad but more weary returned. +One moment at morning he lingers by that cottage that stands by the stream, +Many moments at evening he tarries by that casement that woos the moon's beam; +For the light of his life and his labours, like a lamp from that casement + shines +In the heart-lighted face that looks out from that purple-clad trellis of + vines. + +Francesca! sweet, innocent maiden! 'tis not that thy young cheek is fair, +Or thy sun-lighted eyes glance like stars through the curls of thy wind-woven + hair; +'Tis not for thy rich lips of coral, or even thy white breast of snow, +That my song shall recall thee, Francesca! but more for the good heart below. +Goodness is beauty's best portion, a dower that no time can reduce, +A wand of enchantment and happiness, brightening and strengthening with use. +One the long-sigh'd-for nectar that earthliness bitterly tinctures and taints: +One the fading mirage of the fancy, and one the elysium it paints. + +Long ago, when thy father would kiss thee, the tears in his old eyes would + start, +For thy face--like a dream of his boyhood--renewed the fresh youth of his + heart; +He is gone; but thy mother remaineth, and kneeleth each night-time and morn, +And blesses the Mother of Blessings for the hour her Francesca was born. +There are proud stately dwellings in Florence, and mothers and maidens are + there, +And bright eyes as bright as Francesca's, and fair cheeks as brilliantly fair; +And hearts, too, as warm and as innocent, there where the rich paintings gleam, +But what proud mother blesses her daughter like the mother by Arno's sweet + stream? + +It was not alone when that mother grew aged and feeble to hear, +That thy voice like the whisper of angels still fell on the old woman's ear, +Or even that thy face, when the darkness of time overshadowed her sight, +Shone calm through the blank of her mind, like the moon in the midst of the + night. +But thine was the duty, Francesca, and the love-lightened labour was thine, +To treasure the white-curling wool and the warm-flowing milk of the kine, +And the fruits, and the clusters of purple, and the flock's tender yearly + increase, +That <i>she</i> might have rest in life's evening, and go to her Father in + peace. + +Francesca and Paolo are plighted, and they wait but a few happy days, +Ere they walk forth together in trustfulness out on Life's wonderful ways; +Ere, clasping the hands of each other, they move through the stillness and + noise, +Dividing the cares of existence, but doubling its hopes and its joys. +Sweet days of betrothment, which brighten so slowly to love's burning noon, +Like the days of the spring which grow longer, the nearer the fulness of June, +Though ye move to the noon and the summer of Love with a slow-moving wing, +Ye are lit with the light of the morning, and decked with the blossoms of + spring. + +The days of betrothment are over, for now when the evening star shines, +Two faces look joyfully out from that purple-clad trellis of vines; +The light-hearted laughter is doubled, two voices steal forth on the air, +And blend in the light notes of song, or the sweet solemn cadence of prayer. +At morning when Paolo departeth, 'tis out of that sweet cottage door, +At evening he comes to that casement, but passes that casement no more; +And the old feeble mother at night-time, when saying, "The Lord's will be + done," +While blessing the name of a daughter, now blendeth the name of a son. +</pre> +<center> +<h5>PART II.—TRIUMPH AND REWARD.</h5> +</center> +<pre> +In the furnace the dry branches crackle, the crucible shines as with gold, +As they carry the hot flaming metal in haste from the fire to the mould; +Loud roars the bellows, and louder the flames as they shrieking escape, +And loud is the song of the workmen who watch o'er the fast-filling shape; +To and fro in the red-glaring chamber the proud master anxiously moves, +And the quick and the skilful he praiseth, and the dull and the laggard + reproves; +And the heart in his bosom expandeth, as the thick bubbling metal up swells, +For like to the birth of his children he watcheth the birth of the bells. + +Peace had guarded the door of young Paolo, success on his industry smiled, +And the dark wing of Time had passed quicker than grief from the face of a + child; +Broader lands lay around that sweet cottage, younger footsteps tripped lightly + around, +And the sweet silent stillness was broken by the hum of a still sweeter sound. +At evening when homeward returning how many dear hands must he press, +Where of old at that vine-covered wicket he lingered but one to caress; +And <i>that</i> dearest one is still with him, to counsel, to strengthen, and + calm, +And to pour over Life's needful wounds the healing of Love's blessed balm. + +But age will come on with its winter, though happiness hideth its snows; +And if youth has its duty of labour, the birthright of age is repose: +And thus from that love-sweetened toil, which the heavens had so prospered and + blest, +The old Campanaro will go to that vine-covered cottage to rest; +But Paolo is pious and grateful, and vows as he kneels at her shrine, +To offer some fruit of his labour to Mary the Mother benign-- +Eight silver-toned bells will he offer, to toll for the quick and the dead, +From the tower of the church of her convent that stands on the cliff overhead. + +'Tis for this that the bellows are blowing, that the workmen their + sledge-hammers wield, +That the firm sandy moulds are now broken, and the dark-shining bells are + revealed; +The cars with their streamers are ready, and the flower-harnessed necks of the + steers, +And the bells from their cold silent workshop are borne amid blessings and + tears. +By the white-blossom'd, sweet-scented myrtles, by the olive-trees fringing the + plain, +By the corn-fields and vineyards is winding that gift-bearing, festival train; +And the hum of their voices is blending with the music that streams on the + gale, +As they wend to the Church of our Lady that stands at the head of the vale. + +Now they enter, and now more divinely the saints' painted effigies smile, +Now the acolytes bearing lit tapers move solemnly down through the aisle, +Now the thurifer swings the rich censer, and the white curling vapour + up-floats, +And hangs round the deep-pealing organ, and blends with the tremulous notes. +In a white shining alb comes the abbot, and he circles the bells round about, +And with oil, and with salt, and with water, they are purified inside and out; +They are marked with Christ's mystical symbol, while the priests and the + choristers sing, +And are bless'd in the name of that God to whose honour they ever shall ring. + +Toll, toll! with a rapid vibration, with a melody silv'ry and strong, +The bells from the sound-shaken belfry are singing their first maiden song; +Not now for the dead or the living, or the triumphs of peace or of strife, +But a quick joyous outburst of jubilee full of their newly-felt life; +Rapid, more rapid, the clapper rebounds from the round of the bells-- +Far and more far through the valley the intertwined melody swells-- +Quivering and broken the atmosphere trembles and twinkles around, +Like the eyes and the hearts of the hearers that glisten and beat to the sound. + +But how to express all his rapture when echo the deep cadence bore +To the old Campanaro reclining in the shade of his vine-covered door, +How to tell of the bliss that came o'er him as he gazed on the fair evening + star, +And heard the faint toll of the vesper bell steal o'er the vale from afar-- +Ah! it was not alone the brief ecstasy music doth ever impart +When Sorrow and Joy at its bidding come together and dwell in the heart; +But it was that delicious sensation with which the young mother is blest, +As she lists to the laugh of her child as it falleth asleep on her breast. + +From a sweet night of slumber he woke; but it was not that morn had unroll'd +O'er the pale, cloudy tents of the Orient, her banners of purple and gold: +It was not the song of the skylark that rose from the green pastures near, +But the sound of his bells that fell softly, as dew on the slumberer's ear. +At that sound he awoke and arose, and went forth on the bead-bearing grass-- +At that sound, with his loving Francesca, he piously knelt at the Mass. +If the sun shone in splendour around him, and that certain music were dumb, +He would deem it a dream of the night-time, and doubt if the morning had come. + +At noon, as he lay in the sultriness, under his broad-leafy limes, +Far sweeter than murmuring waters came the tone of the Angelus chimes. +Pious and tranquil he rose, and uncovered his reverend head, +And thrice was the Ave Maria and thrice was the Angelus said, +Sweet custom the South still retaineth, to turn for a moment away +From the pleasures and pains of existence, from the trouble and turmoil of day, +From the tumult within and without, to the peace that abideth on high, +When the deep, solemn sound from the belfry comes down like a voice from the + sky. + +And thus round the heart of the old man, at morning, at noon, and at eve, +The bells, with their rich woof of music, the net-work of happiness weave, +They ring in the clear, tranquil evening, and lo! all the air is alive, +As the sweet-laden thoughts come, like bees, to abide in the heart as a hive. +They blend with his moments of joy, as the odour doth blend with the flower-- +They blend with his light-falling tears, as the sunshine doth blend with the + shower. +As their music is mirthful or mournful, his pulse beateth sluggish or fast, +And his breast takes its hue, like the ocean, as the sunshine or shadows are + cast. + +Thus adding new zest to enjoyment, and drawing the sharp sting from pain, +The heart of the old man grew young, as it drank the sweet musical strain. +Again at the altar he stands, with Francesca the fair at his side, +As the bells ring a quick peal of gladness, to welcome some happy young bride. +'Tis true, when the death bells are tolling, the wounds of his heart bleed + anew, +When he thinks of his old loving mother, and the darlings that destiny slew; +But the tower in whose shade they are sleeping seems the emblem of hope and of + love,-- +There is silence and death at its base, but there's life in the belfry above. + +Was it the sound of his bells, as they swung in the purified air, +That drove from the bosom of Paolo the dark-wingèd demons of care? +Was it their magical tone that for many a shadowless day +(So faith once believed) swept the clouds and the black-boding tempests away? +Ah! never may Fate with their music a harsh-grating dissonance blend! +Sure an evening so calm and so bright will glide peacefully on to the end. +Sure the course of his life, to its close, like his own native river must be, +Flowing on through the valley of flowers to its home in the bright summer sea! +</pre> +<center> +<h5>PART III.—VICISSITUDE AND REST.</h5> +</center> +<pre> +O Erin! thou broad-spreading valley--thou well-watered land of fresh streams, +When I gaze on thy hills greenly sloping, where the light of such loveliness + beams, +When I rest by the rim of thy fountains, or stray where thy streams disembogue, +Then I think that the fairies have brought me to dwell in the bright + Tir-na-n-oge.[96] +But when on the face of thy children I look, and behold the big tears +Still stream down their grief-eaten channels, which widen and deepen with + years, +I fear that some dark blight for ever will fall on thy harvests of peace, +And that, like thy lakes and thy rivers, thy sorrows must ever increase.[97] + +O land! which the heavens made for joy, but where wretchedness buildeth its + throne-- +O prodigal spendthrift of sorrow! and hast thou not heirs of thine own? +Thus to lavish thy sons' only portion, and bring one sad claimant the more, +From the sweet sunny lands of the south, to thy crowded and sorrowful shore? +For this proud bark that cleaveth thy waters, she is not a corrach of thine, +And the broad purple sails that spread o'er her seem dyed in the juice of the + vine. +Not thine is that flag, backward floating, nor the olive-cheek'd seamen who + guide, +Nor that heart-broken old man who gazes so listlessly over the tide. + +Accurs'd be the monster, who selfishly draweth his sword from its sheath; +Let his garland be twined by the furies, and the upas tree furnish the wreath; +Let the blood he has shed steam around him, through the length of eternity's + years, +And the anguish-wrung screams of his victims for ever resound in his ears. +For all that makes life worth possessing must yield to his self-seeking lust: +He trampleth on home and on love, as his war-horses trample the dust; +He loosens the red streams of ruin, which wildly, though partially, stray-- +They but chafe round the rock-bastion'd castle, while they sweep the frail + cottage away. + +Feuds fell like a plague upon Florence, and rage from without and within; +Peace turned her mild eyes from the havoc, and Mercy grew deaf in the din; +Fear strengthened the dove-wings of happiness, tremblingly borne on the gale; +And the angel Security vanished, as the war-demon swept o'er the vale. +Is it for the Mass or the Angelus new that the bells ever ring? +Or is it the red trickling mist such a purple reflection doth fling? +Ah, no: 'tis the tocsin of terror that tolls from the desolate shrine; +And the down-trodden vineyards are flowing, but not with the blood of the vine. + +Deadly and dark was the tempest that swept o'er that vine-cover'd plain; +Burning and withering, its drops fell like fire on the grass and the grain. +But the gloomiest moments must pass to their graves, as the brightest and best, +And thus once again did fair Fiesole look o'er a valley of rest. +But, oh! in that brief hour of horror, that bloody eclipse of the sun, +What hopes and what dreams have been shattered?--what ruin and wrong have been + done? +What blossoms for ever have faded, that promised a harvest so fair; +And what joys are laid low in the dust that eternity cannot repair! + +Look down on that valley of sorrows, whence the land-marks of joy are removed, +Oh! where is the darling Francesca, so loving, so dearly beloved?-- +And where are her children, whose voices rose music-winged once form this spot? +And why are the sweet bells now silent? and where is the vine-cover'd cot? +'Tis morning--no Mass-bell is tolling; 'tis noon, but no Angelus rings; +'Tis evening, but no drops of melody rain from her rose-coloured wings. +Ah! where have the angels, poor Paolo, that guarded thy cottage door flown? +And why have they left thee to wander thus childless and joyless alone? + +His children had grown into manhood, but, ah! in that terrible night +Which had fallen on fair Florence, they perished away in the thick of the + fight; +Heart-blinded, his darling Francesca went seeking her sons through the gloom, +And found them at length, and lay down full of love by their side in the tomb, +That cottage, its vine-cover'd porch and its myrtle-bound garden of flowers, +That church whence the bells with their voices, drown'd the sound of the + fast-flying hours, +Both are levelled and laid in the dust, and the sweet-sounding bells have been + torn +From their downfallen beams, and away by the red hand of sacrilege borne. + +As the smith, in the dark, sullen smithy, striketh quick on the anvil below, +Thus Fate on the heart of the old man struck rapidly blow after blow: +Wife, children, and hope passed away from the heart once so burning and bold, +As the bright shining sparks disappear when the red glowing metal grows cold. +He missed not the sound of his bells while those death-sounds struck loud in + the ears, +He missed not the church where they rang while his old eyes were blinded with + tears; +But the calmness of grief coming soon, in its sadness and silence profound, +He listened once more as of old, but in vain, for the joy-bearing sound. + +When he felt indeed they had vanished, one fancy then flashed on his brain, +One wish made his heart beat anew with a throbbing it could not restrain-- +'Twas to wander away from fair Florence, its memory and dream-haunted dells, +And to seek up and down through the earth for the sound of its magical bells. +They will speak of the hopes that have perished, and the joys that have faded + so fast +With the music of memory wingèd, they will seem but the voice of the past; +As, when the bright morning has vanished, and evening grows starless and dark, +The nightingale song of remembrance recalls the sweet strain of the lark. + +Thus restlessly wandering through Italy, now by the Adrian sea, +In the shrine of Loreto, he bendeth his travel-tired suppliant knee; +And now by the brown troubled Tiber he taketh his desolate way, +And in many a shady basilica lingers to listen and pray. +He prays for the dear ones snatched from him, nor vainly nor hopelessly prays, +For the strong faith in union hereafter like a beam o'er his cold bosom plays; +He listens at morning and evening, when matin and vesper bells toll, +But their sweetest sounds grate on his ear, and their music is harsh to his + soul. + +For though sweet are the bells that ring out from the tall campanili of Rome, +Ah! they are not the dearer and sweeter ones, tuned with the memory of home. +So leaving proud Rome and fair Tivoli, southward the old man must stray, +'Till he reaches the Eden of waters that sparkle in Napoli's bay: +He sees not the blue waves of Baiæ, nor Ischia's summits of brown, +He sees but the high campanili that rise o'er each far-gleaming town. +Driven restlessly onward, he saileth away to the bright land of Spain, +And seeketh thy shrine, Santiago, and stands by the western main. + +A bark bound for Erin lay waiting, he entered like one in a dream; +Fair winds in the full purple sails led him soon to the Shannon's broad stream. +'Twas an evening that Florence might envy, so rich was the lemon-hued air, +As it lay on lone Scattery's island, or lit the green mountains of Clare; +The wide-spreading old giant river rolled his waters as smooth and as still +As if Oonagh, with all her bright nymphs, had come down from the far fairy + hill,[98] +To fling her enchantments around on the mountains, the air, and the tide, +And to soothe the worn heart of the old man who looked from the dark vessel's + side. + +Borne on the current the vessel glides smoothly but swiftly away, +By Carrigaholt, and by many a green sloping headland and bay, +'Twixt Cratloe's blue hills and green woods, and the soft sunny shores of + Tervoe, +And now the fair city of Limerick spreads out on the broad bank below; +Still nearer and nearer approaching, the mariners look o'er the town, +The old man sees nought but St. Mary's square tower, with its battlements + brown. +He listens--as yet all is silent, but now, with a sudden surprise, +A rich peal of melody rings from that tower through the clear evening skies! + +One note is enough--his eye moistens, his heart, long so wither'd, outswells, +He has found them--the sons of his labours--his musical, magical bells! +At each stroke all the bright past returneth, around him the sweet Arno shines, +His children--his darling Francesca--his purple-clad trellis of vines! +Leaning forward, he listens, he gazes, he hears in that wonderful strain +The long-silent voices that murmur, "Oh, leave us not, father again!" +'Tis granted--he smiles--his eye closes--the breath from his white lips hath + fled-- +The father has gone to his children--the old Campanaro is dead! +</pre> +<p><sup>94</sup> The hills of Else.  See Appendix to + O'Daly's "History of the Geraldines," translated by the Rev. C. P. Meehan, + p. 130.</p> +<p><sup>95</sup> Bell-founder.</p> +<p><sup>96</sup> The country of youth; the Elysium of the + Pagan Irish.</p> +<p><sup>97</sup> Camden seems to credit a + tradition commonly believed in his time, of a gradual increase in the number + and size of the lakes and rivers of Ireland.</p> +<p><sup>98</sup> The beautiful hill in Lower + Ormond called <i>Knockshegowna,</i> i.e., Oonagh's Hill, so called from being + the fabled residence of Oonagh (or Una), the Fairy Queen of Spenser.  One + of the finest views of the Shannon is to be seen from this hill.</p> +<p><a name="p140" id="p140"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>ALICE AND UNA.</h3> +<h5>A TALE OF CEIM-AN-EICH.<sup>99</sup></h5> +</center> +<pre> +Ah! the pleasant time hath vanished, ere our wretched doubtings banished, +All the graceful spirit-people, children of the earth and sea, +Whom in days now dim and olden, when the world was fresh and golden, +Every mortal could behold in haunted rath, and tower, and tree-- +They have vanished, they are banished--ah! how sad the loss for thee, + Lonely Céim-an-eich! + +Still some scenes are yet enchanted by the charms that Nature granted, +Still are peopled, still are haunted, by a graceful spirit band. +Peace and beauty have their dwelling where the infant streams are welling, +Where the mournful waves are knelling on Glengariff's coral strand; +Or where, on Killarney's mountains, Grace and Terror smiling stand, + Like sisters, hand in hand! + +Still we have a new romance in fire-ships through the tamed sea glancing, +And the snorting and the prancing of the mighty engine steed; +Still, Astolpho-like, we wander through the boundless azure yonder, +Realizing what seemed fonder than the magic tales we read: +Tales of wild Arabian wonder, where the fancy all is freed-- + Wilder far indeed! + +Now that Earth once more hath woken, and the trance of Time is broken, +And the sweet word--Hope--is spoken, soft and sure, though none know how, +Could we, could we only see all these, the glories of the Real, +Blended with the lost Ideal, happy were the old world now-- +Woman in its fond believing--man with iron arm and brow-- + Faith and work its vow! + +Yes! the Past shines clear and pleasant, and there's glory in the Present; +And the Future, like a crescent, lights the deepening sky of Time; +And that sky will yet grow brighter, if the Worker and the Writer-- +If the Sceptre and the Mitre join in sacred bonds sublime. +With two glories shining o'er them, up the coming years they'll climb, + Earth's great evening as its prime! + +With a sigh for what is fading, but, O Earth! with no upbraiding, +For we feel that time is braiding newer, fresher flowers for thee, +We will speak, despite our grieving, words of loving and believing, +Tales we vowed when we were leaving awful Céim-an-eich, +Where the sever'd rocks resemble fragments of a frozen sea, + And the wild deer flee! + +'Tis the hour when flowers are shrinking, when the weary sun is sinking, +And his thirsty steeds are drinking in the cooling western sea; +When young Maurice lightly goeth, where the tiny streamlet floweth +And the struggling moonlight showeth where his path must be-- +Path whereon the wild goats wander fearlessly and free + Through dark Céim-an-eich. + +As a hunter, danger daring, with his dogs the brown moss sharing, +Little thinking, little caring, long a wayward youth lived he; +But his bounding heart was regal, and he looked as looks the eagle, +And he flew as flies the beagle, who the panting stag doth see: +Love, who spares a fellow-archer, long had let him wander free + Through wild Céim-an-eich! + +But at length the hour drew nigher when his heart should feel that fire; +Up the mountain high and higher had he hunted from the dawn; +Till the weeping fawn descended, where the earth and ocean blended, +And with hope its slow way wended to a little grassy lawn; +It is safe, for gentle Alice to her saving breast hath drawn + Her almost sister fawn. + +Alice was a chieftain's daughter, and, though many suitors sought her, +She so loved Glengariff's water that she let her lovers pine; +Her eye was beauty's palace, and her cheek an ivory chalice, +Through which the blood of Alice gleamed soft as rosiest wine, +And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the fairies intertwine,[100] + And her heart a golden mine. + +She was gentler and shyer than the light fawn that stood by her, +And her eyes emit a fire soft and tender as her soul; +Love's dewy light doth drown her, and the braided locks that crown her +Than autumn's trees are browner, when the golden shadows roll +Through the forests in the evening, when cathedral turrets toll, + And the purple sun advanceth to its goal. + +Her cottage was a dwelling all regal homes excelling, +But, ah! beyond the telling was the beauty round it spread: +The wave and sunshine playing, like sisters each arraying, +Far down the sea-plants swaying upon their coral bed, +As languid as the tresses on a sleeping maiden's head, + When the summer breeze is dead. + +Need we say that Maurice loved her, and that no blush reproved her +When her throbbing bosom moved her to give the heart she gave; +That by dawnlight and by twilight, and, O blessed moon! by thy light, +When the twinkling stars on high light the wanderer o'er the wave, +His steps unconscious led him where Glengariff's waters lave + Each mossy bank and cave. + +He thitherward is wending, o'er the vale is night descending, +Quick his step, but quicker sending his herald thoughts before; +By rocks and streams before him, proud and hopeful on he bore him; +One star was shining o'er him--in his heart of hearts two more-- +And two other eyes, far brighter than a human head e'er wore, + Unseen were shining o'er. + +These eyes are not of woman, no brightness merely human +Could, planet-like, illumine the place in which they shone; +But Nature's bright works vary--there are beings light and airy, +Whom mortal lips call fairy, and Una she is one-- +Sweet sisters of the moonbeams and daughters of the sun, + Who along the curling cool waves run. + +As summer lightning dances amid the heavens' expanses, +Thus shone the burning glances of those flashing fairy eyes; +Three splendours there were shining, three passions intertwining, +Despair and hope combining their deep-contrasted dyes, +With jealousy's green lustre, as troubled ocean vies + With the blue of summer skies! + +She was a fairy creature, of heavenly form and feature, +Not Venus' self could teach her a newer, sweeter grace, +Not Venus' self could lend her an eye so dark and tender, +Half softness and half splendour, as lit her lily face; +And as the choral planets move harmonious throughout space, + There was music in her pace. + +But when at times she started, and her blushing lips were parted, +And a pearly lustre darted from her teeth so ivory white, +You'd think you saw the gliding of two rosy clouds dividing, +And the crescent they were hiding gleam forth upon your sight +Through these lips, as though the portals of a heaven pure and bright, + Came a breathing of delight! + +Though many an elf-king loved her, and elf-dames grave reproved her, +The hunter's daring moved her more wildly every hour; +Unseen she roamed beside him, to guard him and to guide him, +But now she must divide him from her human rival's power. +Ah! Alice!--gentle Alice! the storm begins to lower + That may crush Glengariff's flower! + +The moon, that late was gleaming, as calm as childhood's dreaming, +Is hid, and, wildly screaming, the stormy winds arise; +And the clouds flee quick and faster before their sullen master, +And the shadows of disaster are falling from the skies; +Strange sights and sounds are rising--but, Maurice, be thou wise, + Nor heed the tempting cries. + +If ever mortal needed that council, surely he did; +But the wile has now succeeded--he wanders from his path; +The cloud its lightning sendeth, and its bolt the stout oak rendeth, +And the arbutus back bendeth in the whirlwind, as a lath! +Now and then the moon looks out, but, alas! its pale face hath + A dreadful look of wrath. + +In vain his strength he squanders--at each step he wider wanders-- +Now he pauses--now he ponders where his present path may lead; +And, as he round is gazing, he sees--a sight amazing-- +Beneath him, calmly grazing, a noble jet-black steed. +"Now, heaven be praised!" cried Maurice, "for this succour in my need-- + From this labyrinth I'm freed!" + +Upon its back he leapeth, but a shudder through him creepeth, +As the mighty monster sweepeth like a torrent through the dell; +His mane, so softly flowing, is now a meteor blowing, +And his burning eyes are glowing with the light of an inward hell; +And the red breath of his nostrils, like steam where the lightning fell; + And his hoofs have a thunder knell! + +What words have we for painting the momentary fainting +That the rider's heart is tainting, as decay doth taint a corse? +But who will stoop to chiding, in a fancied courage priding, +When we know that he is riding the fearful Phooka Horse?[101] +Ah! his heart beats quick and faster than the smitings of remorse + As he sweepeth through the wild grass and gorse! + +As the avalanche comes crashing, 'mid the scattered streamlets splashing, +Thus backward wildly dashing flew the horse through Céim-an-eich-- +Through that glen so wide and narrow back he darted like an arrow-- +Round, round by Gougane Barra, and the fountains of the Lee; +O'er the Giant's Grave he leapeth, and he seems to own in fee + The mountains, and the rivers, and the sea! + +From his flashing hoofs who shall lock the eagle homes of Malloc, +When he bounds, as bounds the Mialloch[102] in its wild and murmuring tide? +But as winter leadeth Flora, or the night leads on Aurora, +Or as shines green Glashenglora[103] along the black hill's side, +Thus, beside that demon monster, white and gentle as a bride, + A tender fawn is seen to glide. + +It is the fawn that fled him, and that late to Alice led him, +But now it does not dread him, as it feigned to do before, +When down the mountain gliding, in that sheltered meadow hiding, +It left his heart abiding by wild Glengariff's shore: +For it was a gentle fairy who the fawn's light form thus wore, + And who watched sweet Alice o'er. + +But the steed is backward prancing where late it was advancing, +And his flashing eyes are glancing, like the sun upon Lough Foyle; +The hardest granite crushing, through the thickest brambles brushing, +Now like a shadow rushing up the sides of Slieve-na-goil! +And the fawn beside him gliding o'er the rough and broken soil, + Without fear and without toil. + +Through woods, the sweet birds' leaf home, he rusheth to the sea foam, +Long, long the fairies' chief home, when the summer nights are cool, +And the blue sea, like a syren, with its waves the steed environ, +Which hiss like furnace iron when plunged within a pool, +Then along among the islands where the water nymphs bear rule, + Through the bay to Adragool. + +Now he rises o'er Berehaven, where he hangeth like a raven-- +Ah! Maurice, though no craven, how terrible for thee +To see the misty shading of the mighty mountains fading, +And thy winged fire-steed wading through the clouds as through a sea! +Now he feels the earth beneath him--he is loosen'd--he is free, + And asleep in Céim-an-eich. + +Away the wild steed leapeth, while his rider calmly sleepeth +Beneath a rock which keepeth the entrance to the glen, +Which standeth like a castle, where are dwelling lord and vassal, +Where within are wind and wassail, and without are warrior men; +But save the sleeping Maurice, this castle cliff had then + No mortal denizen![104] + +Now Maurice is awaking, for the solid earth is shaking, +And a sunny light is breaking through the slowly opening stone +And a fair page at the portal crieth, "Welcome, welcome! mortal, +Leave thy world (at best a short ill), for the pleasant world we own: +There are joys by thee untasted, there are glories yet unknown-- + Come kneel at Una's throne." + +With a sullen sound of thunder, the great rock falls asunder, +He looks around in wonder, and with ravishment awhile, +For the air his sense is chaining, with as exquisite a paining +As when summer clouds are raining o'er a flowery Indian isle; +And the faces that surround him, oh! how exquisite their smile, + So free of mortal care and guile. + +These forms, oh! they are finer--these faces are diviner +Than, Phidias, even thine are, with all thy magic art; +For beyond an artist's guessing, and beyond a bard's expressing, +Is the face that truth is dressing with the feelings of the heart; +Two worlds are there together--earth and heaven have each a part-- + And of such, divinest Una, thou art! + +And then the dazzling lustre of the hall in which they muster-- +Where the brightest diamonds cluster on the flashing walls around; +And the flying and advancing, and the sighing and the glancing. +And the music and the dancing on the flower-inwoven ground, +And the laughing and the feasting, and the quaffing and the sound, + In which their voices all are drowned. + +But the murmur now is hushing--there's a pushing and a rushing, +There's a crowding and a crushing, through that golden, fairy place, +Where a snowy veil is lifting, like the slow and silent shifting +Of a shining vapour drifting across the moon's pale face-- +For there sits gentle Una, fairest queen of fairy race, + In her beauty, and her majesty, and grace. + +The moon by stars attended, on her pearly throne ascended, +Is not more purely splendid than this fairy-girted queen; +And when her lips had spoken, 'mid the charmed silence broken, +You'd think you had awoken in some bright Elysian scene; +For her voice than the lark's was sweeter, that sings in joy between + The heavens and the meadows green. + +But her cheeks--ah! what are roses?--what are clouds where eve reposes?-- +What are hues that dawn discloses?--to the blushes spreading there; +And what the sparkling motion of a star within the ocean, +To the crystal soft emotion that her lustrous dark eyes wear? +And the tresses of a moonless and a starless night are fair + To the blackness of her raven hair. + +Ah! mortal hearts have panted for what to thee is granted-- +To see the halls enchanted of the spirit world revealed; +And yet no glimpse assuages the feverish doubt that rages +In the hearts of bards and sages wherewith they may be healed; +For this have pilgrims wandered--for this have votaries kneeled-- + For this, too, has blood bedewed the field. + +"And now that thou beholdest what the wisest and the oldest, +What the bravest and the boldest, have never yet descried, +Wilt thou come and share our being, be a part of what thou'rt seeing, +And flee, as we are fleeing, through the boundless ether wide? +Or along the silver ocean, or down deep where pale pearls hide? + And I, who am a queen, will be thy bride. + +"As an essence thou wilt enter the world's mysterious centre," +And then the fairy bent her, imploring to the youth-- +"Thou'lt be free of Death's cold ghastness, and, with a comet's fastness, +Thou canst wander through the vastness to the Paradise of Truth, +Each day a new joy bringing, which will never leave in sooth + The slightest stain of weariness and ruth." + +As he listened to the speaker, his heart grew weak and weaker-- +Ah! Memory, go seek her, that maiden by the wave, +Who with terror and amazement is looking from her casement, +Where the billows at the basement of her nestled cottage rave, +At the moon which struggles onward through the tempest, like the brave, + And which sinks within the clouds as in a grave. + +All maidens will abhor us, and it's very painful for us +To tell how faithless Maurice forgot his plighted vow: +He thinks not of the breaking of the heart he late was seeking, +He but listens to her speaking, and but gazes on her brow; +And his heart has all consented, and his lips are ready now + With the awful and irrevocable vow. + +While the word is there abiding, lo! the crowd is now dividing, +And, with sweet and gentle gliding, in before him came a fawn; +It was the same that fled him, and that seemed so much to dread him, +When it down in triumph led him to Glengariff's grassy lawn, +When, from rock to rock descending, to sweet Alice he was drawn, + As through Céim-an-eich he hunted from the dawn. + +The magic chain is broken--no fairy vow is spoken-- +From his trance he hath awoken, and once again is free; +And gone is Una's palace, and vain the wild steed's malice, +And again to gentle Alice down he wends through Céim-an-eich: +The moon is calmly shining over mountain, stream, and tree, + And the yellow sea-plants glisten through the sea. + +The sun his gold is flinging, the happy birds are singing, +And bells are gaily ringing along Glengariff's sea; +And crowds in many a galley to the happy marriage rally +Of the maiden of the valley and the youth of Céim-an-eich; +Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask on bended knee + A blessing, gentle Alice, upon thee! +</pre> +<p><sup>99</sup> The pass of Kéim-an-eigh (the path of the deer) + lies to the south-west of Inchageela, in the direction of Bantry Bay.</p> +<p><sup>100</sup> The lusmore (or fairy cap), literally the great herb, + <i>Digitalis purpurea.</i></p> +<p><sup>101</sup> The Phooka is described as belonging to the malignant class + of fairy + beings, and he is as wild and capricious in his character as he is changeable + in his form.  At one time an eagle or an <i>ignis fatuus,</i> at another + a horse + or a bull, while occasionally he figures as a compound of the calf and + goat.  + When he assumes the form of a horse, his great object, according to a recent + writer, seems to be to obtain a rider, and then he is in his most malignant + glory.—See Croker's "Fairy Legends."</p> +<p><sup>102</sup> Mialloch, "the murmuring river" at + Glengariff.—Smith's "Cork."</p> +<p><sup>103</sup> Glashenglora, a mountain torrent, which finds its way + into the Atlantic + Ocean through Glengariff, in the west of the county of Cork.  The name, + literally translated, signifies "the noisy green water."—Barry's "Songs + of Ireland," p. 173.</p> +<p><sup>104</sup> There is a great square rock, literally resembling the + description in the text, which stands near the Glengariff entrance to + the pass of Céim-an-eich.</p> +<p><a name="p154" id="p154"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2><i>National Poems and Songs.</i></h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +<h3>ADVANCE!</h3> +</center> +<pre> +God bade the sun with golden step sublime, + Advance! +He whispered in the listening ear of Time, + Advance! +He bade the guiding spirits of the stars, +With lightning speed, in silver shining cars, +Along the bright floor of his azure hall, + Advance! +Sun, stars, and time obey the voice, and all + Advance! + +The river at its bubbling fountain cries, + Advance! +The clouds proclaim, like heralds through the skies, + Advance! +Throughout the world the mighty Master's laws +Allow not one brief moment's idle pause; +The earth is full of life, the swelling seeds + Advance! +And summer hours, like flowery harnessed steeds, + Advance! + +To man's most wondrous hand the same voice cried, + Advance! +Go clear the woods, and o'er the bounding tide + Advance! +Go draw the marble from its secret bed, +And make the cedar bend its giant head; +Let domes and columns through the wondering air + Advance! +The world, O man! is thine; but, wouldst thou share, + Advance! + +Unto the soul of man the same voice spoke, + Advance! +From out the chaos, thunder-like, it broke, + "Advance! +Go track the comet in its wheeling race, +And drag the lightning from its hiding-place; +From out the night of ignorance and fears, + Advance! +For Love and Hope, borne by the coming years, + Advance!" + +All heard, and some obeyed the great command, + Advance! +It passed along from listening land to land, + Advance! +The strong grew stronger, and the weak grew strong, +As passed the war-cry of the world along-- +Awake, ye nations, know your powers and rights-- + Advance! +Through hope and work to Freedom's new delights, + Advance! + +Knowledge came down and waved her steady torch, + Advance! +Sages proclaimed 'neath many a marble porch, + Advance! +As rapid lightning leaps from peak to peak, +The Gaul, the Goth, the Roman, and the Greek, +The painted Briton caught the wingèd word, + Advance! +And earth grew young, and carolled as a bird, + Advance! + +O Ireland! oh, my country, wilt thou not + Advance? +Wilt thou not share the world's progressive lot?-- + Advance! +Must seasons change, and countless years roll on, +And thou remain a darksome Ajalon? +And never see the crescent moon of Hope + Advance? +'Tis time thine heart and eye had wider scope-- + Advance! + +Dear brothers, wake! look up! be firm! be strong + Advance! +From out the starless night of fraud and wrong + Advance! +The chains have fall'n from off thy wasted hands, +And every man a seeming freedman stands;-- +But, ah! 'tis in the soul that freedom dwells,-- + Advance! +Proclaim that there thou wearest no manacles;-- + Advance! + +Advance! thou must advance or perish now;-- + Advance! +Advance! Why live with wasted heart and brow?-- + Advance! +Advance! or sink at once into the grave; +Be bravely free or artfully a slave! +Why fret thy master, if thou must have one? + Advance! +Advance three steps, the glorious work is done;-- + Advance! + +The first is COURAGE--'tis a giant stride!-- + Advance! +With bounding step up Freedom's rugged side + Advance! +KNOWLEDGE will lead thee to the dazzling heights, +TOLERANCE will teach and guard thy brother's rights. +Faint not! for thee a pitying Future waits-- + Advance! +Be wise, be just, with will as fixed as Fate's,-- + Advance! +</pre> +<p><a name="p157" id="p157"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>REMONSTRANCE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Bless the dear old verdant land, + Brother, wert thou born of it? +As thy shadow life doth stand, +Twining round its rosy band, +Did an Irish mother's hand + Guide thee in the morn of it? +Did thy father's soft command + Teach thee love or scorn of it? + +Thou who tread'st its fertile breast, + Dost thou feel a glow for it? +Thou, of all its charms possest, +Living on its first and best, +Art thou but a thankless guest, + Or a traitor foe for it? +If thou lovest, where the test? + Wouldst thou strike a blow for it? + +Has the past no goading sting + That can make thee rouse for it? +Does thy land's reviving spring, +Full of buds and blossoming, +Fail to make thy cold heart cling, + Breathing lover's vows for it? +With the circling ocean's ring + Thou wert made a spouse for it! + +Hast thou kept, as thou shouldst keep, + Thy affections warm for it, +Letting no cold feeling creep, +Like the ice breath o'er the deep, +Freezing to a stony sleep + Hopes the heart would form for it-- +Glories that like rainbows weep + Through the darkening storm for it? + +What we seek is Nature's right-- + Freedom and the aids of it;-- +Freedom for the mind's strong flight +Seeking glorious shapes star-bright +Through the world's intensest night, + When the sunshine fades of it! +Truth is one, and so is light, + Yet how many shades of it! + +A mirror every heart doth wear, + For heavenly shapes to shine in it; +If dim the glass or dark the air, +That Truth, the beautiful and fair, +God's glorious image, shines not there, + Or shines with nought divine in it: +A sightless lion in its lair, + The darkened soul must pine in it! + +Son of this old, down-trodden land, + Then aid us in the fight for it; +We seek to make it great and grand, +Its shipless bays, its naked strand, +By canvas-swelling breezes fanned. + Oh! what a glorious sight for it! +The past expiring like a brand, + In morning's rosy light for it! + +Think that this dear old land is thine, + And thou a traitor slave of it; +Think how the Switzer leads his kine, +When pale the evening star doth shine, +His song has home in every line, + Freedom in every stave of it! +Think how the German loves his Rhine, + And worships every wave of it! + +Our own dear land is bright as theirs, + But, oh! our hearts are cold for it; +Awake! we are not slaves but heirs; +Our fatherland requires our cares, +Our work with man, with God our prayers. + Spurn blood-stained Judas-gold for it, +Let us do all that honour dares-- + Be earnest, faithful, bold for it! +</pre> +<p><a name="p159" id="p159"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>IRELAND'S VOW.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Come! Liberty, come! we are ripe for thy coming-- + Come freshen the hearts where thy rival has trod-- +Come, richest and rarest!--come, purest and fairest!-- + Come, daughter of Science!--come, gift of the God! + +Long, long have we sighed for thee, coyest of maidens-- + Long, long have we worshipped thee, queen of the brave! +Steadily sought for thee, readily fought for thee, + Purpled the scaffold and glutted the grave! + +On went the fight through the cycle of ages, + Never our battle-cry ceasing the while; +Forward, ye valiant ones! onward, battalioned ones! + Strike for your Erin, your own darling isle! + +Still in the ranks are we, struggling with eagerness, + Still in the battle for Freedom are we! +Words may avail in it--swords if they fail in it, + What matters the weapon, if only we're free? + +Oh! we are pledged in the face of the universe, + Never to falter and never to swerve; +Toil for it!--bleed for it!--if there be need for it, + Stretch every sinew and strain every nerve! + +Traitors and cowards our names shall be ever, + If for a moment we turn from the chase; +For ages exhibited, scoffed at, and gibbeted, + As emblems of all that was servile and base! + +Irishmen! Irishmen! think what is Liberty, + Fountain of all that is valued and dear, +Peace and security, knowledge and purity, + Hope for hereafter and happiness here. + +Nourish it, treasure it deep in your inner heart-- + Think of it ever by night and by day; +Pray for it!--sigh for it!--work for it!--die for it!-- + What is this life and dear freedom away? + +List! scarce a sound can be heard in our thoroughfares-- + Look! scarce a ship can be seen on our streams; +Heart-crushed and desolate, spell-bound, irresolute, + Ireland but lives in the bygone of dreams! + +Irishmen! if we be true to our promises, + Nerving our souls for more fortunate hours, +Life's choicest blessings, love's fond caressings, + Peace, home, and happiness, all shall be ours! +</pre> +<p><a name="p160" id="p160"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>A DREAM.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +I dreamt a dream, a dazzling dream, of a green isle far away, +Where the glowing West to the ocean's breast calleth the dying day; +And that island green was as fair a scene as ever man's eye did see, +With its chieftains bold and its temples old, and its homes and its altars + free! +No foreign foe did that green isle know, no stranger band it bore, +Save the merchant train from sunny Spain, and from Afric's golden shore! +And the young man's heart would fondly start, and the old man's eye would + smile, +As their thoughts would roam o'er the ocean foam to that lone and "holy isle!" + +Years passed by, and the orient sky blazed with a newborn light, +And Bethlehem's star shone bright afar o'er the lost world's darksome night; +And the diamond shrines from plundered mines, and the golden fanes of Jove, +Melted away in the blaze of day at the simple spellword--Love! +The light serene o'er that island green played with its saving beams, +And the fires of Baal waxed dim and pale like the stars in the morning streams! +And 'twas joy to hear, in the bright air clear, from out each sunny glade, +The tinkling bell, from the quiet cell, or the cloister's tranquil shade! + +A cloud of night o'er that dream so bright soon with its dark wing came, +And the happy scene of that island green was lost in blood and shame; +For its kings unjust betrayed their trust, and its queens, though fair, were + frail, +And a robber band, from a stranger land, with their war-whoops filled the gale; +A fatal spell on that green isle fell, a shadow of death and gloom +Passed withering o'er, from shore to shore, like the breath of the foul simoom; +And each green hill's side was crimson dyed, and each stream rolled red and + wild, +With the mingled blood of the brave and good--of mother and maid and child! + +Dark was my dream, though many a gleam of hope through that black night broke, +Like a star's bright form through a whistling storm, or the moon through a + midnight oak! +And many a time, with its wings sublime, and its robes of saffron light, +Would the morning rise on the eastern skies, but to vanish again in night! +For, in abject prayer, the people there still raised their fettered hands, +When the sense of right and the power to smite are the spirit that commands; +For those who would sneer at the mourner's tear, and heed not the suppliant's + sigh, +Would bow in awe to that first great law, a banded nation's cry! + +At length arose o'er that isle of woes a dawn with a steadier smile, +And in happy hour a voice of power awoke the slumbering isle! +And the people all obeyed the call of their chief's unsceptred hand, +Vowing to raise, as in ancient days, the name of their own dear land! +My dream grew bright as the sunbeam's light, as I watched that isle's career, +Through the varied scene and the joys serene of many a future year; +And, oh! what a thrill did my bosom fill as I gazed on a pillared pile, +Where a senate once more in power watched o'er the rights of that lone green + isle! +</pre> +<p><a name="p162" id="p162"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE PRICE OF FREEDOM.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Man of Ireland, heir of sorrow, + Wronged, insulted, scorned, oppressed, +Wilt thou never see that morrow + When thy weary heart may rest? +Lift thine eyes, thou outraged creature; + Nay, look up, for man thou art, +Man in form, and frame, and feature, + Why not act man's god-like part? + +Think, reflect, inquire, examine, + Is it for this God gave you birth-- +With the spectre look of famine, + Thus to creep along the earth? +Does this world contain no treasures + Fit for thee, as man, to wear?-- +Does this life abound in pleasures, + And thou askest not to share? + +Look! the nations are awaking, + Every chain that bound them burst! +At the crystal fountains slaking + With parched lips their fever thirst! +Ignorance the demon, fleeing, + Leaves unlocked the fount they sip; +Wilt thou not, thou wretched being, + Stoop and cool thy burning lip? + +History's lessons, if thou'lt read 'em, + All proclaim this truth to thee: +Knowledge is the price of freedom, + Know thyself, and thou art free! +Know, O man! thy proud vocation, + Stand erect, with calm, clear brow-- +Happy! happy were our nation, + If thou hadst that knowledge now! + +Know thy wretched, sad condition, + Know the ills that keep thee so; +Knowledge is the sole physician, + Thou wert healed if thou didst know! +Those who crush, and scorn, and slight thee, + Those to whom thou once wouldst kneel, +Were the foremost then to right thee, + Didst thou but feel as thou shouldst feel! + +Not as beggars lowly bending, + Not in sighs, and groans, and tears, +But a voice of thunder sending + Through thy tyrant brother's ears! +Tell him he is not thy master, + Tell him of man's common lot, +Feel life has but one disaster, + To be a slave, and know it not! + +Didst but prize what knowledge giveth, + Didst but know how blest is he +Who in Freedom's presence liveth, + Thou wouldst die, or else be free! +Round about he looks in gladness, + Joys in heaven, and earth, and sea, +Scarcely heaves a sigh of sadness, + Save in thoughts of such as thee! +</pre> +<p><a name="p164" id="p164"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE VOICE AND PEN.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Oh! the orator's voice is a mighty power, + As it echoes from shore to shore, +And the fearless pen has more sway o'er men + Than the murderous cannon's roar! +What burst the chain far over the main, + And brighten'd the captive's den? +'Twas the fearless pen and the voice of power, + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +The tyrant knaves who deny man's rights, + And the cowards who blanch with fear, +Exclaim with glee: "No arms have ye, + Nor cannon, nor sword, nor spear! +Your hills are ours--with our forts and towers + We are masters of mount and glen!" +Tyrants, beware! for the arms we bear + Are the Voice and the fearless Pen! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +Though your horsemen stand with their bridles in hand, + And your sentinels walk around! +Though your matches flare in the midnight air, + And your brazen trumpets sound! +Oh! the orator's tongue shall be heard among + These listening warrior men; +And they'll quickly say: "Why should we slay + Our friends of the Voice and Pen?" + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +When the Lord created the earth and sea, + The stars and the glorious sun, +The Godhead spoke, and the universe woke + And the mighty work was done! +Let a word be flung from the orator's tongue, + Or a drop from the fearless pen, +And the chains accursed asunder burst + That fettered the minds of men! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +Oh! these are the swords with which we fight, + The arms in which we trust, +Which no tyrant hand will dare to brand, + Which time cannot dim or rust! +When these we bore we triumphed before, + With these we'll triumph again! +And the world will say no power can stay + The Voice and the fearless Pen! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! +</pre> +<p><a name="p165" id="p165"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>"CEASE TO DO EVIL—LEARN TO DO WELL."<sup>105</sup></h3> +</center> +<pre> +Oh! thou whom sacred duty hither calls, + Some glorious hours in freedom's cause to dwell, +Read the mute lesson on thy prison walls, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well." + +If haply thou art one of genius vast, + Of generous heart, of mind sublime and grand, +Who all the spring-time of thy life has pass'd + Battling with tyrants for thy native land, +If thou hast spent thy summer as thy prime, + The serpent brood of bigotry to quell, +Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +If thy great heart beat warmly in the cause + Of outraged man, whate'er his race might be, +If thou hast preached the Christian's equal laws, + And stayed the lash beyond the Indian sea! +If at thy call a nation rose sublime, + If at thy voice seven million fetters fell,-- +Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +If thou hast seen thy country's quick decay, + And, like the prophet, raised thy saving hand, +And pointed out the only certain way + To stop the plague that ravaged o'er the land! +If thou hast summoned from an alien clime + Her banished senate here at home to dwell: +Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +Or if, perchance, a younger man thou art, + Whose ardent soul in throbbings doth aspire, +Come weal, come woe, to play the patriot's part + In the bright footsteps of thy glorious sire +If all the pleasures of life's youthful time + Thou hast abandoned for the martyr's cell, +Do thou repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +Or art thou one whom early science led + To walk with Newton through the immense of heaven, +Who soared with Milton, and with Mina bled, + And all thou hadst in freedom's cause hast given? +Oh! fond enthusiast--in the after time + Our children's children of thy worth shall tell-- +England proclaims thy honesty a crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +Or art thou one whose strong and fearless pen + Roused the Young Isle, and bade it dry its tears, +And gathered round thee ardent, gifted men, + The hope of Ireland in the coming years? +Who dares in prose and heart-awakening rhyme, + Bright hopes to breathe and bitter truths to tell? +Oh! dangerous criminal, repent thy crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +"Cease to do evil"--ay! ye madmen, cease! + Cease to love Ireland--cease to serve her well; +Make with her foes a foul and fatal peace, + And quick will ope your darkest, dreariest cell. +"Learn to do well"--ay! learn to betray, + Learn to revile the land in which you dwell +England will bless you on your altered way + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" +</pre> +<p><sup>105</sup> This inscription is on the front of Richmond +Penitentiary, Dublin, in which O'Connell and the +other political prisoners were confined in the year 1844.</p> +<p><a name="p167" id="p167"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE LIVING LAND.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +We have mourned and sighed for our buried pride,[106] + We have given what nature gives, +A manly tear o'er a brother's bier, + But now for the Land that lives! +He who passed too soon, in his glowing noon, + The hope of our youthful band, +From heaven's blue wall doth seem to call + "Think, think of your Living Land! +I dwell serene in a happier scene, + Ye dwell in a Living Land!" + +Yes! yes! dear shade, thou shalt be obeyed, + We must spend the hour that flies, +In no vain regret for the sun that has set, + But in hope for another to rise; +And though it delay with its guiding ray, + We must each, with his little brand, +Like sentinels light through the dark, dark night, + The steps of our Living Land. +She needeth our care in the chilling air-- + Our old, dear Living Land! + +Yet our breasts will throb, and the tears will throng + To our eyes for many a day, +For an eagle in strength and a lark in song + Was the spirit that passed away. +Though his heart be still as a frozen rill, + And pulseless his glowing hand, +We must struggle the more for that old green shore + He was making a Living Land. +By him we have lost, at whatever the cost, + She must be a Living Land! + +A Living Land, such as Nature plann'd, + When she hollowed our harbours deep, +When she bade the grain wave o'er the plain, + And the oak wave over the steep: +When she bade the tide roll deep and wide, + From its source to the ocean strand, +Oh! it was not to slaves she gave these waves, + But to sons of a Living Land! +Sons who have eyes and hearts to prize + The worth of a Living Land! + +Oh! when shall we lose the hostile hues, + That have kept us so long apart? +Or cease from the strife, that is crushing the life + From out of our mother's heart? +Could we lay aside our doubts and our pride, + And join in a common band, +One hour would see our country free, + A young and a Living Land! +With a nation's heart and a nation's part, + A free and a Living Land! +</pre> +<p><sup>106</sup> Thomas Davis.</p> +<p><a name="p169" id="p169"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE DEAD TRIBUNE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> + The awful shadow of a great man's death + Falls on this land, so sad and dark before-- + Dark with the famine and the fever breath, + And mad dissensions knawing at its core. + Oh! let us hush foul discord's maniac roar, + And make a mournful truce, however brief, + Like hostile armies when the day is o'er! + And thus devote the night-time of our grief +To tears and prayers for him, the great departed chief. + + In "Genoa the Superb" O'Connell dies-- + That city of Columbus by the sea, + Beneath the canopy of azure skies, + As high and cloudless as his fame must be. + Is it mere chance or higher destiny + That brings these names together? One, the bold + Wanderer in ways that none had trod but he-- + The other, too, exploring paths untold; +One a new world would seek, and one would save the old! + + With childlike incredulity we cry, + It cannot be that great career is run, + It cannot be but in the eastern sky + Again will blaze that mighty world-watch'd sun! + Ah! fond deceit, the east is dark and dun, + Death's black, impervious cloud is on the skies; + Toll the deep bell, and fire the evening gun, + Let honest sorrow moisten manly eyes: +A glorious sun has set that never more shall rise! + + Brothers, who struggle yet in Freedom's van, + Where'er your forces o'er the world are spread, + The last great champion of the rights of man-- + The last great Tribune of the world is dead! + Join in our grief, and let our tears be shed + Without reserve or coldness on his bier; + Look on his life as on a map outspread-- + His fight for freedom--freedom far and near-- +And if a speck should rise, oh! hide it with a tear! + + To speak his praises little need have we + To tell the wonders wrought within these waves + Enough, so well he taught us to be free, + That even to him we could not kneel as slaves. + Oh! let our tears be fast-destroying graves, + Where doubt and difference may for ever lie, + Buried and hid as in sepulchral caves; + And let love's fond and reverential eye +Alone behold the star new risen in the sky! + + But can it be, that well-known form is stark? + Can it be true, that burning heart is chill? + Oh! can it be that twinkling eye is dark? + And that great thunder voice is hush'd and still? + Never again upon the famous hill + Will he preside as monarch of the land, + With myriad myriads subject to his will; + Never again shall raise that powerful hand, +To rouse, to warm, to check, to kindle, and command! + + The twinkling eye, so full of changeful light, + Is dimmed and darkened in a dread eclipse; + The withering scowl, the smile so sunny bright, + Alike have faded from his voiceless lips. + The words of power, the mirthful, merry quips, + The mighty onslaught, and the quick reply, + The biting taunts that cut like stinging whips, + The homely truth, the lessons grave and high, +All, all are with the past, but cannot, shall not die! +</pre> +<p><a name="p171" id="p171"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>A MYSTERY.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing, +They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing; +They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing, +And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing! + + God of Justice! God of Power! + Do we dream? Can it be? + In this land, at this hour, + With the blossom on the tree, + In the gladsome month of May, + When the young lambs play, + When Nature looks around + On her waking children now, + The seed within the ground, + The bud upon the bough? + Is it right, is it fair, + That we perish of despair + In this land, on this soil, + Where our destiny is set, + Which we cultured with our toil, + And watered with our sweat? + + We have ploughed, we have sown + But the crop was not our own; + We have reaped, but harpy hands + Swept the harvest from our lands; + We were perishing for food, + When, lo! in pitying mood, + Our kindly rulers gave + The fat fluid of the slave, + While our corn filled the manger + Of the war-horse of the stranger! + + God of Mercy! must this last? + Is this land preordained + For the present and the past, + And the future, to be chained, + To be ravaged, to be drained, + To be robbed, to be spoiled, + To be hushed, to be whipt, + Its soaring pinions clipt, + And its every effort foiled? + + Do our numbers multiply + But to perish and to die? + Is this all our destiny below, + That our bodies, as they rot, + May fertilise the spot + Where the harvests of the stranger grow? + + If this be, indeed, our fate, + Far, far better now, though late, +That we seek some other land and try some other zone; + The coldest, bleakest shore + Will surely yield us more +Than the store-house of the stranger that we dare not call our own. + + Kindly brothers of the West, + Who from Liberty's full breast +Have fed us, who are orphans, beneath a step-dame's frown, + Behold our happy state, + And weep your wretched fate +That you share not in the splendours of our empire and our crown! + + Kindly brothers of the East, + Thou great tiara'd priest, +Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth-- + Or thou who bear'st control + Over golden Istambol, +Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our dearth, + + Turn here your wondering eyes, + Call your wisest of the wise, +Your Muftis and your ministers, your men of deepest lore; + Let the sagest of your sages + Ope our island's mystic pages, +And explain unto your Highness the wonders of our shore. + + A fruitful teeming soil, + Where the patient peasants toil +Beneath the summer's sun and the watery winter sky-- + Where they tend the golden grain + Till it bends upon the plain, +Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die. + + Where they watch their flocks increase, + And store the snowy fleece, +Till they send it to their masters to be woven o'er the waves; + Where, having sent their meat + For the foreigner to eat, +Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into their graves. + +'Tis for this they are dying where the golden corn is growing, +'Tis for this they are dying where the crowded herds are lowing, +'Tis for this they are dying where the streams of life are flowing, +And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing. +</pre> +<p><a name="p174a" id="p174a"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2><i>Sonnets.</i></h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +<h3>AFTER READING J. T. GILBERT'S "THE HISTORY OF DUBLIN."</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Long have I loved the beauty of thy streets, + Fair Dublin: long, with unavailing vows, + Sigh'd to all guardian deities who rouse +The spirits of dead nations to new heats +Of life and triumph:--vain the fond conceits, + Nestling like eaves-warmed doves 'neath patriot brows! + Vain as the "Hope," that from thy Custom-House +Looks o'er the vacant bay in vain for fleets. + Genius alone brings back the days of yore: +Look! look, what life is in these quaint old shops-- +The loneliest lanes are rattling with the roar + of coach and chair; fans, feathers, flambeaus, fops, +Flutter and flicker through yon open door, + Where Handel's hand moves the great organ stops.[107] +</pre> +<p><i>March 11th, 1856.</i></p> +<p><sup>107</sup> It is stated that the "Messiah" was first publicly + performed in Dublin.  See Gilbert's "History of Dublin," vol. i. + p. 75, and Townsend's "Visit of Handel to Dublin," p. 64.</p> +<p><a name="p174b" id="p174b"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.</h3> +<p>(Dedication of Calderon's "Chrysanthus and Daria.")</p> +</center> +<pre> +Pensive within the Coliseum's walls + I stood with thee, O Poet of the West!-- + The day when each had been a welcome guest +In San Clemente's venerable halls:-- +With what delight my memory now recalls + That hour of hours, that flower of all the rest, + When, with thy white beard falling on thy breast, + That noble head, that well might serve as Paul's +In some divinest vision of the saint + By Raffael dreamed--I heard thee mourn the dead-- + The martyred host who fearless there, though faint, +Walked the rough road that up to heaven's gate led: + These were the pictures Calderon loved to paint + In golden hues that here perchance have fled. + +Yet take the colder copy from my hand, + Not for its own but for the Master's sake; + Take it, as thou, returning home, wilt take + From that divinest soft Italian land +Fixed shadows of the beautiful and grand + In sunless pictures that the sun doth make-- + Reflections that may pleasant memories wake + Of all that Raffael touched, or Angelo planned:-- +As these may keep what memory else might lose, + So may this photograph of verse impart + An image, though without the native hues +Of Calderon's fire, and yet with Calderon's art, + Of what thou lovest through a kindred muse + That sings in heaven, yet nestles in the heart. +</pre> +<p><i>Dublin, August 24th, 1869.</i></p> +<p><a name="p175" id="p175"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO KENELM HENRY DIGBY,</h3> +<h5>AUTHOR OF "MORES CATHOLICI," "THE BROADSTONE +OF HONOUR," "COMPITUM," ETC.</h5> +<p><i>(On being presented by him with a copy, painted by +himself, of a rare Portrait of Calderon.)</i></p> +</center> +<pre> +How can I thank thee for this gift of thine, + Digby, the dawn and day-star of our age, + Forerunner thou of many a saint and sage +Who since have fought and conquer'd 'neath the Sign? +Thou hast left, as in a sacred shrine-- + What shrine more pure than thy unspotted page?-- + The priceless relics, as a heritage, +Of loftiest thoughts and lessons most divine. + Poet and teacher of sublimest lore, +Thou scornest not the painter's mimic skill, +And thus hath come, obedient to thy will + The outward form that Calderon's spirit wore. +Ah! happy canvas that two glories fill, + Where Calderon lives 'neath Digby's hand once more. +</pre> +<p><i>October 15th, 1878.</i></p> +<p><a name="p176" id="p176"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO ETHNA.<sup>108</sup></h3> +</center> +<pre> +Ethna, to cull sweet flowers divinely fair, + To seek for gems of such transparent light + As would not be unworthy to unite +Round thy fair brow, and through thy dark-brown hair, +I would that I had wings to cleave the air, + In search of some far region of delight, + That back to thee from that adventurous flight, +A glorious wreath my happy hands might bear; + Soon would the sweetest Persian rose be thine-- +Soon would the glory of Golconda's mine +Flash on thy forehead, like a star--ah! me, + In place of these, I bring, with trembling hand, +These fading wild flowers from our native land-- + These simple pebbles from the Irish Sea! +</pre> +<p><sup>108</sup> This sonnet to the poet's wife + was prefixed as a dedication to his first volume of poems.</p> +<p><a name="p177" id="p177"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2><i>Underglimpses.</i></h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +<h3>THE ARRAYING.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The blue-eyed maidens of the sea +With trembling haste approach the lee, +So small and smooth, they seem to be +Not waves, but children of the waves, +And as each linkèd circle laves +The crescent marge of creek and bay, +Their mingled voices all repeat-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +We come to bathe thy snow-white feet. + +We bring thee treasures rich and rare, +White pearl to deck thy golden hair, +And coral beads, so smoothly fair +And free from every flaw or speck; +That they may lie upon thy neck, +This sweetest day--this brightest day +That ever on the green world shone-- + O lovely May, O long'd-for May! +As if thy neck and thee were one. + +We bring thee from our distant home +Robes of the pure white-woven foam, +And many a pure, transparent comb, +Formed of the shells the tortoise plaits, +By Babelmandeb's coral-straits; +And amber vases, with inlay +Of roseate pearl time never dims-- + O lovely May! O longed-for May! +Wherein to lave thine ivory limbs. + +We bring, as sandals for thy feet, +Beam-broidered waves, like those that greet, +With green and golden chrysolite, +The setting sun's departing beams, +When all the western water seems +Like emeralds melted by his ray, +So softly bright, so gently warm-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +That thou canst trust thy tender form. + +And lo! the ladies of the hill, +The rippling stream, and sparkling rill, +With rival speed, and like good will, +Come, bearing down the mountain's side +The liquid crystals of the tide, +In vitreous vessels clear as they, +And cry, from each worn, winding path: + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +We come to lead thee to the bath. + +And we have fashioned, for thy sake, +Mirrors more bright than art could make-- +The silvery-sheeted mountain lake +Hangs in its carvèd frame of rocks, +Wherein to dress thy dripping locks, +Or bind the dewy curls that stray +Thy trembling breast meandering down-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +Within their self-woven crown. + +Arise, O May! arise and see +Thine emerald robes are held for thee +By many a hundred-handed tree, +Who lift from all the fields around +The verdurous velvet from the ground, +And then the spotless vestments lay, +Smooth-folded o'er their outstretch'd arms-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +Wherein to fold thy virgin charms. + +Thy robes are stiff with golden bees, +Dotted with gems more bright than these, +And scented by each perfumed breeze +That, blown from heaven's re-open'd bowers, +Become the souls of new-born flowers, +Who thus their sacred birth betray; +Heavenly thou art, nor less should be-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +The favour'd forms that wait on thee. + +The moss to guard thy feet is spread, +The wreaths are woven for thy head, +The rosy curtains of thy bed +Become transparent in the blaze +Of the strong sun's resistless gaze: +Then lady, make no more delay, +The world still lives, though spring be dead-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +And thou must rule and reign instead. + +The lady from her bed arose, +Her bed the leaves the moss-bud blows +Herself a lily in that rose; +The maidens of the streams and sands +Bathe some her feet and some her hands: +And some the emerald robes display; +Her dewy locks were then upcurled, + And lovely May--the long'd-for May-- +Was crown'd the Queen of all the World! +</pre> +<p><a name="p180" id="p180"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE SEARCH.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Let us seek the modest May, + She is down in the glen, + Hiding and abiding + From the common gaze of men, + Where the silver streamlet crosses + O'er the smooth stones green with mosses, + And glancing and dancing, + Goes singing on its way-- +We shall find the modest maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the merry May, + She is up on the hill, + Laughing and quaffing + From the fountain and the rill. + Where the southern zephyr sprinkles, + Like bright smiles on age's wrinkles, + O'er the edges and ledges + Of the rocks, the wild flowers gay-- +We shall find the merry maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the musing May, + She is deep in the wood, + Viewing and pursuing + The beautiful and good. + Where the grassy bank receding, + Spreads its quiet couch for reading + The pages of the sages, + And the poet's lyric lay-- +We shall find the musing maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the mirthful May, + She is out on the strand + Racing and chasing + The ripples o'er the sand. + Where the warming waves discover + All the treasures that they cover, + Whitening and brightening + The pebbles for her play-- +We shall find the mirthful maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the wandering May, + She is off to the plain, + Finding the winding + Of the labyrinthine lane. + She is passing through its mazes + While the hawthorn, as it gazes + With grief, lets its leaflets + Whiten all the way-- +We shall find the wandering maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek her in the ray-- + Let us track her by the rill-- + Wending ascending + The slopings of the hill. + Where the robin from the copses + Breathes a love-note, and then drops his + Trilling, till, willing, + His mate responds his lay-- +We shall find the listening maiden there to-day. + +But why seek her far away? + Like a young bird in its nest, + She is warming and forming + Her dwelling in her breast. + While the heart she doth repose on, + Like the down the sunwind blows on, + Gloweth, yet showeth + The trembling of the ray-- +We shall find the happy maiden there to-day. +</pre> +<p><a name="p181" id="p181"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE TIDINGS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +A bright beam came to my window frame, + This sweet May morn, +And it said to the cold, hard glass: + Oh! let me pass, +For I have good news to tell, +The queen of the dewy dell, + The beautiful May is born! + +Warm with the race, through the open space, + This sweet May morn, +Came a soft wind out of the skies: + And it said to my heart--Arise! +Go forth from the winter's fire, +For the child of thy long desire, + The beautiful May is born! + +The bright beam glanced and the soft wind danced, + This sweet May morn, +Over my cheek and over my eyes; + And I said with a glad surprise: +Oh! lead me forth, ye blessed twain, +Over the hill and over the plain, + Where the beautiful May is born. + +Through the open door leaped the beam before + This sweet May morn, +And the soft wind floated along, + Like a poet's song, +Warm from his heart and fresh from his brain; +And they led me over the mount and plain, + To the beautiful May new-born. + +My guide so bright and my guide so light, + This sweet May morn, +Led me along o'er the grassy ground, + And I knew by each joyous sight and sound, +The fields so green and the skies so gay, +That heaven and earth kept holiday, + That the beautiful May was born. + +Out of the sea with their eyes of glee, + This sweet May morn, +Came the blue waves hastily on; + And they murmuring cried--Thou happy one! +Show us, O Earth! thy darling child, +For we heard far out on the ocean wild, + That the beautiful May was born. + +The wingèd flame to the rosebud came, + This sweet May morn, +And it said to the flower--Prepare! + Lay thy nectarine bosom bare; +Full soon, full soon, thou must rock to rest, +And nurse and feed on thy glowing breast, + The beautiful May now born. + +The gladsome breeze through the trembling trees, + This sweet May morn, +Went joyously on from bough to bough; + And it said to the red-branched plum--O thou, +Cover with mimic pearls and gems, +And with silver bells, thy coral stems, + For the beautiful May now born. + +Under the eaves and through the leaves + This sweet May morn, +The soft wind whispering flew: + And it said to the listening birds--Oh, you, +Sweet choristers of the skies, +Awaken your tenderest lullabies, + For the beautiful May now born. + +The white cloud flew to the uttermost blue, + This sweet May morn, +It bore, like a gentle carrier-dove, + The blessèd news to the realms above; +While its sister coo'd in the midst of the grove, +And within my heart the spirit of love, + That the beautiful May was born! +</pre> +<p><a name="p183" id="p183"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>WELCOME, MAY.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Welcome, May! welcome, May! +Thou hast been too long away, + All the widow'd wintry hours +Wept for thee, gentle May; + But the fault was only ours-- +We were sad when thou wert gay! + +Welcome, May! welcome, May! +We are wiser far to-day-- + Fonder, too, than we were then. +Gentle May! joyous May! + Now that thou art come again, +We perchance may make thee stay. + +Welcome, May! welcome, May! +Everything kept holiday + Save the human heart alone. +Mirthful May! gladsome May! + We had cares and thou hadst none +When thou camest last this way! + +When thou camest last this way +Blossoms bloomed on every spray, + Buds on barren boughs were born-- +Fertile May! fruitful May! + Like the rose upon the thorn +Cannot grief awhile be gay? + +'Tis not for the golden ray, +Or the flowers that strew thy way, + O immortal One! thou art +Here to-day, gentle May-- + 'Tis to man's ungrateful heart +That thy fairy footsteps stray. + +'Tis to give that living clay +Flowers that ne'er can fade away-- + Fond remembrances of bliss; +And a foretaste, mystic May, + Of the life that follows this, +Full of joys that last alway! + +Other months are cold and gray, +Some are bright, but what are they? + Earth may take the whole eleven-- +Hopeful May--happy May! + Thine the borrowed month of heaven +Cometh thence and points the way. + +Wingèd minstrels come and play +Through the woods their roundelay; + Who can tell but only thou, +Spirit-ear'd, inspirèd May, + On the bud-embow'rèd bough +What the happy lyrists say? + +Is the burden of their lay +Love's desire, or Love's decay? + Are there not some fond regrets +Mix'd with these, divinest May, + For the sun that never sets +Down the everlasting day? + +But upon thy wondrous way +Mirth alone should dance and play-- + No regrets, how fond they be, +E'er should wound the ear of May-- + Bow before her, flower and tree! +Nor, my heart, do thou delay. +</pre> +<p><a name="p185" id="p185"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE MEETING OF THE FLOWERS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +There is within this world of ours + Full many a happy home and hearth; + What time, the Saviour's blessed birth +Makes glad the gloom of wintry hours. + +When back from severed shore and shore, + And over seas that vainly part, + The scattered embers of the heart +Glow round the parent hearth once more. + +When those who now are anxious men, + Forget their growing years and cares; + Forget the time-flakes on their hairs, +And laugh, light-hearted boys again. + +When those who now are wedded wives, + By children of their own embraced, + Recall their early joys, and taste +Anew the childhood of their lives. + +And the old people--the good sire + And kindly parent-mother--glow + To feel their children's children throw +Fresh warmth around the Christmas fire. + +When in the sweet colloquial din, + Unheard the sullen sleet-winds shout; + And though the winter rage without, +The social summer reigns within. + +But in this wondrous world of ours + Are other circling kindred chords, + Binding poor harmless beasts and birds, +And the fair family of flowers. + +That family that meet to-day + From many a foreign field and glen, + For what is Christmas-tide with men +Is with the flowers the time of May. + +Back to the meadows of the West, + Back to their natal fields they come; + And as they reach their wished-for home, +The Mother folds them to her breast. + +And as she breathes, with balmy sighs, + A fervent blessing over them, + The tearful, glistening dews begem +The parents' and the children's eyes. + +She spreads a carpet for their feet, + And mossy pillows for their heads, + And curtains round their fairy beds +With blossom-broidered branches sweet. + +She feeds them with ambrosial food, + And fills their cups with nectared wine; + And all her choristers combine +To sing their welcome from the wood: + +And all that love can do is done, + As shown to them in countless ways: + She kindles to the brighter blaze +The fireside of the world--the sun. + +And with her own soft, trembling hands, + In many a calm and cool retreat, + She laves the dust that soils their feet +In coming from the distant lands. + +Or, leading down some sinuous path, + Where the shy stream's encircling heights + Shut out all prying eyes, invites +Her lily daughters to the bath. + +There, with a mother's harmless pride, + Admires them sport the waves among: + Now lay their ivory limbs along +The buoyant bosom of the tide. + +Now lift their marble shoulders o'er + The rippling glass, or sink with fear, + As if the wind approaching near +Were some wild wooer from the shore. + +Or else the parent turns to these, + The younglings born beneath her eye, + And hangs the baby-buds close by, +In wind-rocked cradles from the trees. + +And as the branches fall and rise, + Each leafy-folded swathe expands: + And now are spread their tiny hands, +And now are seen their starry eyes. + +But soon the feast concludes the day, + And yonder in the sun-warmed dell, + The happy circle meet to tell +Their labours since the bygone May. + +A bright-faced youth is first to raise + His cheerful voice above the rest, + Who bears upon his hardy breast +A golden star with silver rays:[109] + +Worthily won, for he had been + A traveller in many a land, + And with his slender staff in hand +Had wandered over many a green: + +Had seen the Shepherd Sun unpen + Heaven's fleecy flocks, and let them stray + Over the high-pealed Himalay, +Till night shut up the fold again: + +Had sat upon a mossy ledge, + O'er Baiæ in the morning's beams, + Or where the sulphurous crater steams +Had hung suspended from the edge: + +Or following its devious course + Up many a weary winding mile, + Had tracked the long, mysterious Nile +Even to its now no-fabled source: + +Resting, perchance, as on he strode, + To see the herded camels pass + Upon the strips of wayside grass +That line with green the dust-white road. + +Had often closed his weary lids + In oases that deck the waste, + Or in the mighty shadows traced +By the eternal pyramids. + +Had slept within an Arab's tent, + Pitched for the night beneath a palm, + Or when was heard the vesper psalm, +With the pale nun in worship bent: + +Or on the moonlit fields of France, + When happy village maidens trod + Lightly the fresh and verdurous sod, +There was he seen amid the dance: + +Yielding with sympathizing stem + To the quick feet that round him flew, + Sprang from the ground as they would do, +Or sank unto the earth with them: + +Or, childlike, played with girl and boy + By many a river's bank, and gave + His floating body to the wave, +Full many a time to give them joy. + +These and a thousand other tales + The traveller told, and welcome found; + These were the simple tales went round +The happy circles in the vales. + +Keeping reserved with conscious pride + His noblest act, his crowning feat, + How he had led even Humboldt's feet +Up Chimborazo's mighty side. + +Guiding him through the trackless snow, + By sheltered clefts of living soil, + Sweet'ning the fearless traveller's toil, +With memories of the world below. + +Such was the hardy Daisy's tale, + And then the maidens of the group-- + Lilies, whose languid heads down droop +Over their pearl-white shoulders pale-- + +Told, when the genial glow of June + Had passed, they sought still warmer climes + And took beneath the verdurous limes +Their sweet siesta through the noon: + +And seeking still, with fond pursuit, + The phantom Health, which lures and wiles + Its followers to the shores and isles +Of amber waves, and golden fruit. + +There they had seen the orange grove + Enwreath its gold with buds of white, + As if themselves had taken flight, +And settled on the boughs above. + +There kiss'd by every rosy mouth + And press'd to every gentle breast, + These pallid daughters of the West +Reigned in the sunshine of the South. + +And thoughtful of the things divine, + Were oft by many an altar found, + Standing like white-robed angels round +The precincts of some sacred shrine. + +And Violets, with dark blue eyes, + Told how they spent the winter time, + In Andalusia's Eden clime, +Or 'neath Italia's kindred skies. + +Chiefly when evening's golden gloom + Veil'd Rome's serenest ether soft, + Bending in thoughtful musings oft, +Above the lost Alastor's tomb; + +Or the twin-poet's; he who sings + "A thing of beauty never dies," + Paying them back in fragrant sighs, +The love they bore all loveliest things. + +The flower[110] whose bronzèd cheeks recalls + The incessant beat of wind and sun, + Spoke of the lore his search had won +Upon Pompeii's rescued walls. + +How, in his antiquarian march, + He crossed the tomb-strewn plain of Rome, + Sat on some prostrate plinth, or clomb +The Coliseum's topmost arch. + +And thence beheld in glad amaze + What Nero's guilty eyes, aloof, + Drank in from off his golden roof-- +The sun-bright city all ablaze: + +Ablaze by day with solar fires-- + Ablaze by night with lunar beams, + With lambent lustre on its streams, +And golden glories round its spires! + +Thence he beheld that wondrous dome, + That, rising o'er the radiant town, + Circles, with Art's eternal crown, +The still imperial brow of Rome. + +Nor was the Marigold remiss, + But told how in her crown of gold + She sat, like Persia's king of old, +High o'er the shores of Salamis; + +And saw, against the morning sky, + The white-sailed fleets their wings display; + And ere the tranquil close of day, +Fade, like the Persian's from her eye. + +Fleets, with their white flags all unfurl'd, + Inscribed with "Commerce," and with "Peace," + Bearing no threatened ill to Greece, +But mutual good to all the world. + +And various other flowers were seen: + Cowslip and Oxlip, and the tall + Tulip, whose grateful hearts recall +The winter homes where they had been. + +Some in the sunny vales, beneath + The sheltering hills; and some, whose eyes + Were gladdened by the southern skies, +High up amid the blooming heath. + +Meek, modest flowers, by poets loved, + Sweet Pansies, with their dark eyes fringed + With silken lashes finely tinged, +That trembled if a leaf but moved: + +And some in gardens where the grass + Mossed o'er the green quadrangle's breast, + There dwelt each flower, a welcome guest, +In crystal palaces of glass: + +Shown as a beauteous wonder there, + By beauty's hands to beauty's eyes, + Breathing what mimic art supplies, +The genial glow of sun-warm air. + +Nor were the absent ones forgot, + Those whom a thousand cares detained, + Those whom the links of duty chained +Awhile from this their natal spot. + +One, who is labour's useful tracks + Is proudly eminent, who roams + The providence of humble homes-- +The blue-eyed, fair-haired, friendly Flax: + +Giving himself to cheer and light + The cottier's else o'ershadowing murk, + Filling his hand with cheerful work, +And all his being with delight: + +And one, the loveliest and the last, + For whom they waited day by day, + All through the merry month of May, +Till one-and-thirty days had passed. + +And when, at length, the longed-for noon + Of night arched o'er th' expectant green + The Rose, their sister and their queen-- +Came on the joyous wings of June: + +And when was heard the gladsome sound, + And when was breath'd her beauteous name, + Unnumbered buds, like lamps of flame, +Gleamed from the hedges all around: + +Where she had been, the distant clime, + The orient realm their sceptre sways, + The poet's pen may paint and praise +Hereafter in his simple rhyme. +</pre> +<p><sup>109</sup> The Daisy.</p> +<p><sup>110</sup> The Wallflower.</p> +<p><a name="p193" id="p193"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE PROGRESS OF THE ROSE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The days of old, the good old days, + Whose misty memories haunt us still, +Demand alike our blame and praise, + And claim their shares of good and ill. + +They had strong faith in things unseen, + But stronger in the things they saw +Revenge for Mercy's pitying mien, + And lordly Right for equal Law. + +'Tis true the cloisters all throughout + The valleys rais'd their peaceful towers, +And their sweet bells ne'er wearied out + In telling of the tranquil hours. + +But from the craggy hills above, + A shadow darken'd o'er the sward; +For there--a vulture to this dove-- + Hung the rude fortress of the lord; + +Whence oft the ravening bird of prey + Descending, to his eyry wild +Bore, with exulting cries, away + The powerless serf's dishonour'd child. + +Then Safety lit with partial beams + But the high-castled peaks of Force, +And Polity revers'd its streams, + And bade them flow but for their Source. + +That Source from which, meandering down, + A thousand streamlets circle now; +For then the monarch's glorious crown + But girt the most rapacious brow. + +But individual Force is dead, + And link'd Opinion late takes birth; +And now a woman's gentle head + Supports the mightiest crown on earth. + +A pleasing type of all the change + Permitted to our eyes to see, +When she herself is free to range + Throughout the realm her rule makes free. + +Not prison'd in a golden cage, + To sigh or sing her lonely state, +A show for youth or doating age, + With idiot eyes to contemplate. + +But when the season sends a thrill + To ev'ry heart that lives and moves, +She seeks the freedom of the hill, + Or shelter of the noontide groves. + +There, happy with her chosen mate, + And circled by her chirping brood, +Forgets the pain of being great + In the mere bliss of being good. + +And thus the festive summer yields + No sight more happy, none so gay, +As when amid her subject-fields + She wanders on from day to day. + +Resembling her, whom proud and fond, + The bard hath sung of--she of old, +Who bore upon her snow-white wand, + All Erin through, the ring of gold. + +Thus, from her castles coming forth, + She wanders many a summer hour, +Bearing the ring of private worth + Upon the silver wand of Power. + +Thus musing, while around me flew + Sweet airs from fancy's amaranth bowers, +Methought, what this fair queen doth do, + Hath yearly done the queen of flowers. + +The beauteous queen of all the flowers, + Whose faintest sigh is like a spell, +Was born in Eden's sinless bowers + Long ere our primal parents fell. + +There in a perfect form she grew, + Nor felt decay, nor tasted death; +Heaven was reflected in her hue, + And heaven's own odours filled her breath. + +And ere the angel of the sword + Drove thence the founders of our race, +They knelt before him, and implor'd + Some relic of that radiant place: + +Some relic that, while time would last, + Should make men weep their fatal sin; +Proof of the glory that was past, + And type of that they yet might win. + +The angel turn'd, and ere his hands + The gates of bliss for ever close, +Pluck'd from the fairest tree that stands + Within heaven's walls--the peerless rose. + +And as he gave it unto them, + Let fall a tear upon its leaves-- +The same celestial liquid gem + We oft perceive on dewy eves. + +Grateful the hapless twain went forth, + The golden portals backward whirl'd, +Then first they felt the biting north, + And all the rigour of this world. + +Then first the dreadful curse had power + To chill the life-streams at their source, +Till e'en the sap within the flower + Grew curdled in its upward course. + +They twin'd their trembling hands across + Their trembling breasts against the drift, +Then sought some little mound of moss + Wherein to lay their precious gift. + +Some little soft and mossy mound, + Wherein the flower might rest till morn; +In vain! God's curse was on the ground, + For through the moss out gleam'd the thorn! + +Out gleam'd the forkèd plant, as if + The serpent tempter, in his rage, +Had put his tongue in every leaf + To mock them through their pilgrimage. + +They did their best; their hands eras'd + The thorns of greater strength and size; +Then 'mid the softer moss they plac'd + The exiled flower of paradise. + +The plant took root; the beams and showers + Came kindly, and its fair head rear'd; +But lo! around its heaven of flowers + The thorns and moss of earth appear'd. + +Type of the greater change that then + Upon our hapless nature fell, +When the degenerate hearts of men + Bore sin and all the thorns of hell. + +Happy, indeed, and sweet our pain, + However torn, however tost, +If, like the rose, our hearts retain + Some vestige of the heaven we've lost. + +Where she upon this colder sphere + Found shelter first, she there abode; +Her native bowers, unseen were near, + And near her still Euphrates flowed-- + +Brilliantly flow'd; but, ah! how dim, + Compar'd to what its light had been;-- +As if the fiery cherubim + Let pass the tide, but kept its sheen. + +At first she liv'd and reigned alone, + No lily-maidens yet had birth; +No turban'd tulips round her throne + Bow'd with their foreheads to the earth. + +No rival sisters had she yet-- + She with the snowy forehead fringed +With blushes; nor the sweet brunette + Whose cheek the yellow sun has ting'd. + +Nor all the harbingers of May, + Nor all the clustering joys of June: +Uncarpeted the bare earth lay, + Unhung the branches' gay festoon. + +But Nature came in kindly mood, + And gave her kindred of her own, +Knowing full well it is not good + For man or flower to be alone. + +Long in her happy court she dwelt, + In floral games and feasts of mirth, +Until her heart kind wishes felt + To share her joy with all the earth. + +To go from longing land to land + A stateless queen, a welcome guest, +O'er hill and vale, by sea and strand, + From North to South, and East to West. + +And thus it is that every year, + Ere Autumn dons his russet robe, +She calls her unseen charioteer, + And makes her progress through the globe. + +First, sharing in the month-long feast-- + "The Feast of Roses"--in whose light +And grateful joy, the first and least + Of all her subjects reunite. + +She sends her heralds on before: + The bee rings out his bugle bold, +The daisy spreads her marbled floor, + The buttercup her cloth of gold. + +The lark leaps up into the sky, + To watch her coming from afar; +The larger moon descends more nigh, + More lingering lags the morning star. + +From out the villages and towns, + From all of mankind's mix'd abodes, +The people, by the lawns and downs, + Go meet her on the winding roads. + +And some would bear her in their hands, + And some would press her to their breast, +And some would worship where she stands, + And some would claim her as their guest. + +Her gracious smile dispels the gloom + Of many a love-sick girl and boy; +Her very presence in a room + Doth fill the languid air with joy. + +Her breath is like a fragrant tune, + She is the soul of every spot; +Gives nature to the rich saloon, + And splendour to the peasant's cot. + +Her mission is to calm and soothe, + And purely glad life's every stage; +Her garlands grace the brow of youth, + And hide the hollow lines of age. + +But to the poet she belongs, + By immemorial ties of love;-- +Herself a folded book of songs, + Dropp'd from the angel's hands above. + +Then come and make his heart thy home, + For thee it opes, for thee it glows;-- +Type of ideal beauty, come! + Wonder of Nature! queenly Rose! +</pre> +<p><a name="p200" id="p200"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE BATH OF THE STREAMS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Down unto the ocean, +Trembling with emotion, +Panting at the notion, + See the rivers run-- +In the golden weather, +Tripping o'er the heather, +Laughing all together-- + Madcaps every one. + +Like a troop of girls +In their loosen'd curls, +See, the concourse whirls + Onward wild with glee; +List their tuneful tattle, +Hear their pretty prattle, +How they'll love to battle + With the assailing sea. + +See, the winds pursue them, +See, the willows woo them +See, the lakelets view them + Wistfully afar, +With a wistful wonder +Down the green slopes under, +Wishing, too, to thunder + O'er their prison bar. + +Wishing, too, to wander +By the sea-waves yonder, +There awhile to squander + All their silvery stores, +There awhile forgetting +All their vain regretting +When their foam went fretting + Round the rippling shores. + +Round the rocky region, +Whence their prison'd legion, +Oft and oft besieging, + Vainly sought to break, +Vainly sought to throw them +O'er the vales below them, +Through the clefts that show them + Paths they dare not take. + +But the swift streams speed them +In the might of freedom, +Down the paths that lead them + Joyously along. +Blinding green recesses +With their floating tresses, +Charming wildernesses + With their murmuring song. + +Now the streams are gliding +With a sweet abiding-- +Now the streams are hiding + 'Mid the whispering reeds-- +Now the streams outglancing +With a shy advancing +Naiad-like go dancing + Down the golden meads. + +Down the golden meadows, +Chasing their own shadows-- +Down the golden meadows, + Playing as they run: +Playing with the sedges, +By the water's edges, +Leaping o'er the ledges, + Glist'ning in the sun: + +Streams and streamlets blending, +Each on each attending, +All together wending, + Seek the silver sands; +Like the sisters holding +With a fond enfolding-- +Like to sisters holding + One another's hands. + +Now with foreheads blushing +With a rapturous flushing-- +Now the streams are rushing + In among the waves. +Now in shy confusion, +With a pale suffusion, +Seek the wild seclusion + Of sequestered caves. + +All the summer hours +Hiding in the bowers, +Scattering silver showers + Out upon the strand; +O'er the pebbles crashing, +Through the ripples splashing, +Liquid pearl-wreaths dashing + From each other's hand. + +By yon mossy boulder, +See an ivory shoulder, +Dazzling the beholder, + Rises o'er the blue; +But a moment's thinking, +Sends the Naiad sinking, +With a modest shrinking, + From the gazer's view. + +Now the wave compresses +All their golden tresses-- +Now their sea-green dresses + Float them o'er the tide; +Now with elf-locks dripping +From the brine they're sipping, +With a fairy tripping, + Down the green waves glide. + +Some that scarce have tarried +By the shore are carried +Sea-ward to be married + To the glad gods there: +Triton's horn is playing, +Neptune's steeds are neighing, +Restless with delaying + For a bride so fair. + +See at first the river +How its pale lips quiver, +How its white waves shiver + With a fond unrest; +List how low it sigheth, +See how swift it flieth, +Till at length it lieth + On the ocean's breast. + +Such is Youth's admiring, +Such is Love's desiring, +Such is Hope's aspiring + For the higher goal; +Such is man's condition +Till in heaven's fruition +Ends the mystic mission + Of the eternal soul. +</pre> +<p><a name="p203" id="p203"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE FLOWERS OF THE TROPICS.</h3> +</center> +<p>"C'est ainsi qu'elle nature a mis, entre les tropiques, la plupart des +fleurs apparentes sur des arbres.  J'y en ai vu bien peu dans +les prairies, mais beaucoup dans les forets.  Dans ces pays, il +faut lever les yeux en haut pour y voir des fleurs; dans le notre, +il faut les baisser à terre."—S<font size="-2">AINT</font> + P<font size="-2">IERRE</font>, <i>Etudes de la Nature.</i></p> +<pre> +In the soft sunny regions that circle the waist + Of the globe with a girdle of topaz and gold, +Which heave with the throbbings of life where they're placed, + And glow with the fire of the heart they enfold; +Where to live, where to breathe, seems a paradise dream-- + A dream of some world more elysian than this-- +Where, if Death and if Sin were away, it would seem + Not the foretaste alone, but the fulness of bliss. + +Where all that can gladden the sense and the sight, + Fresh fruitage as cool and as crimson as even; +Where the richness and rankness of Nature unite + To build the frail walls of the Sybarite's heaven. +But, ah! should the heart feel the desolate dearth + Of some purer enjoyment to speed the bright hours, +In vain through the leafy luxuriance of earth + Looks the languid-lit eye for the freshness of flowers. + +No, its glance must be turned from the earth to the sky, + From the clay-rooted grass to the heaven-branching trees; +And there, oh! enchantment for soul and for eye, + Hang blossoms so pure that an angel might seize. +Thus, when pleasure begins from its sweetness to cloy, + And the warm heart grows rank like a soil over ripe, +We must turn from the earth for some promise of joy, + And look up to heaven for a holier type. + +In the climes of the North, which alternately shine, + Now warm with the sunbeam, now white with the snow, +And which, like the breast of the earth they entwine. + Grow chill with its chillness, or glow with its glow, +In those climes where the soul, on more vigorous wing, + Rises soaring to heaven in its rapturous flight, +And, led ever on by the radiance they fling, + Tracketh star after star through infinitude's night. + +How oft doth the seer from his watch-tower on high. + Scan the depths of the heavens with his wonderful glass; +And, like Adam of old, when Earth's creatures went by, + Name the orbs and the sun-lighted spheres as they pass. +How often, when drooping, and weary, and worn, + With fire-throbbing temples and star-dazzled eyes, +Does he turn from his glass at the breaking of morn, + And exchanges for flowers all the wealth of the skies? + +Ah! thus should we mingle the far and the near, + And, while striving to pierce what the Godhead conceals, +From the far heights of Science look down with a fear + To the lowliest truths the same Godhead reveals. +When the rich fruit of Joy glads the heart and the mouth, + Or the bold wing of Thought leads the daring soul forth; +Let us proudly look up as for flowers of the south, + Let us humbly look down as for flowers of the north. +</pre> +<p><a name="p205" id="p205"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE YEAR-KING.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +It is the last of all the days, +The day on which the Old Year dies. +Ah! yes, the fated hour is near; +I see upon his snow-white bier +Outstretched the weary wanderer lies, +And mark his dying gaze. + +A thousand visions dark and fair, +Crowd on the old man's fading sight; +A thousand mingled memories throng +The old man's heart, still green and strong; +The heritage of wrong and right +He leaves unto his heir. + +He thinks upon his budding hopes, +The day he stood the world's young king, +Upon his coronation morn, +When diamonds hung on every thorn, +And peeped the pearl flowers of the spring +Adown the emerald slopes. + +He thinks upon his youthful pride, +When in his ermined cloak of snow, +Upon his war-horse, stout and staunch-- +The cataract-crested avalanche-- +He thundered on the rocks below, +With his warriors at his side. + +From rock to rock, through cloven scalp, +By rivers rushing to the sea, +With thunderous sound his army wound +The heaven supporting hills around; +Like that the Man of Destiny +Led down the astonished Alp. + +The bugles of the blast rang out, +The banners of the lightning swung, +The icy spear-points of the pine +Bristled along the advancing line, +And as the winds' <i>reveillé</i> rung, +Heavens! how the hills did shout. + +Adown each slippery precipice +Rattled the loosen'd rocks, like balls +Shot from his booming thunder guns, +Whose smoke, effacing stars and suns, +Darkens the stifled heaven, and falls +Far off in arrowy showers of ice. + +Ah! yes, he was a mighty king, +A mighty king, full flushed with youth; +He cared not then what ruin lay +Upon his desolating way; +Not his the cause of God or Truth, +But the brute lust of conquering. + +Nought could resist his mighty will, +The green grass withered where he stood; +His ruthless hands were prompt to seize +Upon the tresses of the trees; +Then shrieked the maidens of the wood, +And the saplings of the hill. + +Nought could resist his mighty will; +For in his ranks rode spectral Death; +The old expired through very fear; +And pined the young, when he came near; +The faintest flutter of his breath +Was sharp enough to kill. + +Nought could resist his mighty will; +The flowers fell dead beneath his tread; +The streams of life, that through the plains +Throb night and day through crystal veins, +With feverish pulses frighten'd fled, +Or curdled, and grew still. + +Nought could resist his mighty will; +On rafts of ice, blue-hued, like steel, +He crossed the broadest rivers o'er +Ah! me, and then was heard no more +The murmur of the peaceful wheel +That turned the peasant's mill. + +But why the evil that attends +On War recall to further view? +Accursèd War!--the world too well +Knows what thou art--thou fiend of hell! +The heartless havoc of a few +For their own selfish ends! + +Soon, soon the youthful conqueror +Felt moved, and bade the horrors cease; +Nature resumed its ancient sway, +Warm tears rolled down the cheeks of Day, +And Spring, the harbinger of peace +Proclaimed the fight was o'er. + +Oh! what a change came o'er the world; +The winds, that cut like naked swords, +Shed balm upon the wounds they made; +And they who came the first to aid +The foray of grim Winter's hordes +The flag of truce unfurled. + +Oh! how the song of joy, the sound +Of rapture thrills the leaguered camps +The tinkling showers like cymbals clash +Upon the late leaves of the ash, +And blossoms hang like festal lamps +On all the trees around. + +And there is sunshine, sent to strew +God's cloth of gold, whereon may dance, +To music that harmonious moves, +The linkèd Graces and the Loves, +Making reality romance, +And rare romance even more than true. + +The fields laughed out in dimpling flowers, +The streams' blue eyes flashed bright with smiles; +The pale-faced clouds turned rosy-red, +As they looked down from overhead, +Then fled o'er continents and isles, +To shed their happy tears in showers. + +The youthful monarch's heart grew light +To find what joy good deeds can shed; +To nurse the orphan buds that bent +Over each turf-piled monument, +Wherein the parent flowers lay dead +Who perished in that fight. + +And as he roamed from day to day, +Atoning thus to flower and tree, +Flinging his lavish gold around +In countless yellow flowers, he found, +By gladsome-weeping April's knee, +The modest maiden May. + +Oh! she was young as angels are, +Ere the eternal youth they lead +Gives any clue to tell the hours +They've spent in heaven's elysian bowers; +Ere God before their eyes decreed +The birth-day of some beauteous star. + +Oh! she was fair as are the leaves +Of pale white roses, when the light +Of sunset, through some trembling bough, +Kisses the queen-flower's blushing brow, +Nor leaves it red nor marble white, +But rosy-pale, like April eves. + +Her eyes were like forget-me-nots, +Dropped in the silvery snowdrop's cup, +Or on the folded myrtle buds, +The azure violet of the woods; +Just as the thirsty sun drinks up +The dewy diamonds on the plots. + +And her sweet breath was like the sighs +Breathed by a babe of youth and love; +When all the fragrance of the south +From the cleft cherry of its mouth, +Meets the fond lips that from above +Stoop to caress its slumbering eyes. + +He took the maiden by the hand, +And led her in her simple gown +Unto a hamlet's peaceful scene, +Upraised her standard on the green; +And crowned her with a rosy crown +The beauteous Queen of all the land. + +And happy was the maiden's reign-- +For peace, and mirth, and twin-born love +Came forth from out men's hearts that day, +Their gladsome fealty to pay; +And there was music in the grove, +And dancing on the plain. + +And Labour carolled at his task, +Like the blithe bird that sings and builds +His happy household 'mid the leaves; +And now the fibrous twig he weaves, +And now he sings to her who gilds +The sole horizon he doth ask. + +And Sickness half forgot its pain, +And Sorrow half forgot its grief; +And Eld forgot that it was old, +As if to show the age of gold +Was not the poet's fond belief, +But every year comes back again. + +The Year-King passed along his way: +Rejoiced, rewarded, and content; +He passed to distant lands and new; +For other tasks he had to do; +But wheresoe'er the wanderer went, +He ne'er forgot his darling May. + +He sent her stems of living gold +From the rich plains of western lands, +And purple-gushing grapes from vines +Born of the amorous sun that shines +Where Tagus rolls its golden sands, +Or Guadaleté old. + +And citrons from Firenze's fields, +And golden apples from the isles +That gladden the bright southern seas, +True home of the Hesperides: +Which now no dragon guards, but smiles, +The bounteous mother, as she yields. + +And then the king grew old like Lear-- +His blood waxed chill, his beard grew gray; +He changed his sceptre for a staff: +And as the thoughtless children laugh +To see him totter on his way, +He knew his destined hour was near. + +And soon it came; and here he strives, +Outstretched upon his snow-white bier, +To reconcile the dread account-- +How stands the balance, what the amount; +As we shall do with trembling fear +When our last hour arrives. + +Come, let us kneel around his bed, +And pray unto his God and ours +For mercy on his servant here: +Oh, God be with the dying year! +And God be with the happy hours +That died before their sire lay dead! + +And as the bells commingling ring +The New Year in, the Old Year out, +Muffled and sad, and now in peals +With which the quivering belfry reels, +Grateful and hopeful be the shout, +The King is dead!--Long live the King! +</pre> +<p><a name="p211" id="p211"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE AWAKING.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +A lady came to a snow-white bier, + Where a youth lay pale and dead: + She took the veil from her widowed head, + And, bending low, in his ear she said: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +She pass'd with a smile to a wild wood near, + Where the boughs were barren and bare; + She tapp'd on the bark with her fingers fair, + And call'd to the leaves that were buried there: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The birds beheld her without a fear, + As she walk'd through the dank-moss'd dells; + She breathed on their downy citadels, + And whisper'd the young in their ivory shells: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +On the graves of the flowers she dropp'd a tear, + But with hope and with joy, like us; + And even as the Lord to Lazarus, + She call'd to the slumbering sweet flowers thus: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +To the lilies that lay in the silver mere, + To the reeds by the golden pond; + To the moss by the rounded marge beyond, + She spoke with her voice so soft and fond: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The violet peep'd, with its blue eye clear, + From under its own gravestone; + For the blessed tidings around had flown, + And before she spoke the impulse was known: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The pale grass lay with its long looks sere + On the breast of the open plain; + She loosened the matted hair of the slain, + And cried, as she filled each juicy vein: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The rush rose up with its pointed spear + The flag, with its falchion broad; + The dock uplifted its shield unawed, + As her voice rung over the quickening sod: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The red blood ran through the clover near, + And the heath on the hills o'erhead; + The daisy's fingers were tipp'd with red, + As she started to life, when the lady said: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +And the young Year rose from his snow-white bier, + And the flowers from their green retreat; + And they came and knelt at the lady's feet, + Saying all, with their mingled voices sweet: + "O lady! behold us here." +</pre> +<p><a name="p213" id="p213"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE RESURRECTION.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The day of wintry wrath is o'er, +The whirlwind and the storm have pass'd, +The whiten'd ashes of the snow +Enwrap the ruined world no more; +Nor keenly from the orient blow +The venom'd hissings of the blast. + +The frozen tear-drops of despair +Have melted from the trembling thorn; +Hope plumes unseen her radiant wing, +And lo! amid the expectant air, +The trumpet of the angel Spring +Proclaims the resurrection morn. + +Oh! what a wave of gladsome sound +Runs rippling round the shores of space, +As the requicken'd earth upheaves +The swelling bosom of the ground, +And Death's cold pallor, startled, leaves +The deepening roses of her face. + +Up from their graves the dead arise-- +The dead and buried flowers of spring;-- +Up from their graves in glad amaze, +Once more to view the long-lost skies, +Resplendent with the dazzling rays +Of their great coming Lord and King. + +And lo! even like that mightiest one, +In the world's last and awful hour, +Surrounded by the starry seven, +So comes God's greatest work, the sun, +Upborne upon the clouds of heaven, +In pomp, and majesty, and power. + +The virgin snowdrop bends its head +Above its grave in grateful prayer; +The daisy lifts its radiant brow, +With a saint's glory round it shed; +The violet's worth, unhidden now, +Is wafted wide by every air. + +The parent stem reclasps once more +Its long-lost severed buds and leaves; +Once more the tender tendrils twine +Around the forms they clasped of yore +The very rain is now a sign +Great Nature's heart no longer grieves. + +And now the judgment-hour arrives, +And now their final doom they know; +No dreadful doom is theirs whose birth +Was not more stainless than their lives; +'Tis Goodness calls them from the earth, +And Mercy tells them where to go. + +Some of them fly with glad accord, +Obedient to the high behest, +To worship with their fragrant breath +Around the altars of the Lord; +And some, from nothingness and death, +Pass to the heaven of beauty's breast. + +Oh, let the simple fancy be +Prophetic of our final doom; +Grant us, O Lord, when from the sod +Thou deign'st to call us too, that we +Pass to the bosom of our God +From the dark nothing of the tomb! +</pre> +<p><a name="p214" id="p214"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE FIRST OF THE ANGELS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Hush! hush! through the azure expanse of the sky +Comes a low, gentle sound, 'twixt a laugh and a sigh; +And I rise from my writing, and look up on high, +And I kneel, for the first of God's angels is nigh! + +Oh, how to describe what my rapt eyes descry! +For the blue of the sky is the blue of his eye; +And the white clouds, whose whiteness the snowflakes outvie, +Are the luminous pinions on which he doth fly! + +And his garments of gold gleam at times like the pyre +Of the west, when the sun in a blaze doth expire; +Now tinged like the orange, now flaming with fire! +Half the crimson of roses and purple of Tyre. + +And his voice, on whose accents the angels have hung, +He himself a bright angel, immortal and young, +Scatters melody sweeter the green buds among +Than the poet e'er wrote, or the nightingale sung. + +It comes on the balm-bearing breath of the breeze, +And the odours that later will gladden the bees, +With a life and a freshness united to these, +From the rippling of waters and rustling of trees. + +Like a swan to its young o'er the glass of a pond, +So to earth comes the angel, as graceful and fond; +While a bright beam of sunshine--his magical wand, +Strikes the fields at my feet, and the mountains beyond. + +They waken--they start into life at a bound-- +Flowers climb the tall hillocks, and cover the ground +With a nimbus of glory the mountains are crown'd, +As the rivulets rush to the ocean profound. + +There is life on the earth, there is calm on the sea, +And the rough waves are smoothed, and the frozen are free; +And they gambol and ramble like boys, in their glee, +Round the shell-shining strand or the grass-bearing lea. + +There is love for the young, there is life for the old, +And wealth for the needy, and heat for the cold; +For the dew scatters, nightly, its diamonds untold, +And the snowdrop its silver, the crocus its gold! + +God!--whose goodness and greatness we bless and adore-- +Be Thou praised for this angel--the first of the four-- +To whose charge Thou has given the world's uttermost shore, +To guide it, and guard it, till time is no more! +</pre> +<p><a name="p216" id="p216"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>SPIRIT VOICES.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +There are voices, spirit voices, + Sweetly sounding everywhere, +At whose coming earth rejoices, + And the echoing realms of air, +And their joy and jubilation + Pierce the near and reach the far, +From the rapid world's gyration + To the twinkling of the star. + +One, a potent voice uplifting, + Stops the white cloud on its way, +As it drives with driftless drifting + O'er the vacant vault of day, +And in sounds of soft upbraiding + Calls it down the void inane +To the gilding and the shading + Of the mountain and the plain. + +Airy offspring of the fountains, + To thy destined duty sail, +Seek it on the proudest mountains, + Seek it in the humblest vale; +Howsoever high thou fliest, + How so deep it bids thee go, +Be a beacon to the highest + And a blessing to the low. + +When the sad earth, broken-hearted, + Hath not even a tear to shed, +And her very soul seems parted + For her children lying dead, +Send the streams with warmer pulses + Through that frozen fount of fears, +And the sorrow that convulses, + Soothe and soften down to tears. + +Bear the sunshine and the shadow, + Bear the rain-drop and the snow, +Bear the night-dew to the meadow, + And to hope the promised bow, +Bear the moon, a moving mirror + For her angel face and form, +Bear to guilt the flashing terror + Of the lightning and the storm. + +When thou thus hast done thy duty + On the earth and o'er the sea, +Bearing many a beam of beauty, + Ever bettering what must be, +Thus reflecting heaven's pure splendour + And concealing ruined clay, +Up to God thy spirit render, + And dissolving pass away. + +And with fond solicitation, + Speaks another to the streams-- +Leave your airy isolation, + Quit the cloudy land of dreams, +Break the lonely peak's attraction, + Burst the solemn, silent glen, +Seek the living world of action + And the busy haunts of men. + +Turn the mill-wheel with thy fingers, + Turn the steam-wheel with thy breath, +With thy tide that never lingers + Save the dying fields from death; +Let the swiftness of thy currents + Bear to man the freight-fill'd ship, +And the crystal of thy torrents + Bring refreshment to his lip. + +And when thou, O rapid river, + Thy eternal home dost seek, +When no more the willows quiver + But to touch thy passing cheek, +When the groves no longer greet thee + And the shore no longer kiss, +Let infinitude come meet thee + On the verge of the abyss. + +Other voices seek to win us-- + Low, suggestive, like the rest-- +But the sweetest is within us + In the stillness of the breast; +Be it ours, with fond desiring, + The same harvest to produce, +As the cloud in its aspiring + And the river in its use. +</pre> +<p><a name="p219" id="p219"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2><i>Centenary Odes.</i></h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +<h3>O'CONNELL.</h3> +<h4>A<font size="-1">UGUST</font> 6<font size="-1">TH</font>, 1875.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +Harp of my native land +That lived anew 'neath Carolan's master hand; +Harp on whose electric chords, +The minstrel Moore's melodious words, +Each word a bird that sings, +Borne as if on Ariel's wings, + Touched every tender soul + From listening pole to pole. +Sweet harp, awake once more: +What, though a ruder hand disturbs thy rest, + A theme so high + Will its own worth supply. +As finest gold is ever moulded best: +Or as a cannon on some festive day, +When sea and sky, when winds and waves rejoice, +Out-booms with thunderous voice, +Bids echo speak, and all the hills obey-- + +So let the verse in echoing accents ring, + So proudly sing, + With intermittent wail, +The nation's dead, but sceptred King, +The glory of the Gael. +</pre> +<center> +<h4>1775.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +Six hundred stormy years have flown, +Since Erin fought to hold her own, +To hold her homes, her altars free, +Within her wall of circling sea. +No year of all those years had fled, +No day had dawned that was not red, +(Oft shed by fratricidal hand), +With the best blood of all the land. +And now, at last, the fight seemed o'er, +The sound of battle pealed no more; +Abject the prostrate people lay, +Nor dared to hope a better day; +An icy chill, a fatal frost, +Left them with all but honour lost, +Left them with only trust in God, +The lands were gone their fathers owned; +Poor pariahs on their native sod. +Their faith was banned, their prophets stoned; +Their temples crowning every height, +Now echoed with an alien rite, +Or silent lay each mouldering pile, +With shattered cross and ruined aisle. +Letters denied, forbade to pray, +And white-winged commerce scared away: +Ah, what can rouse the dormant life +That still survives the stormier strife? +What potent charm can once again +Relift the cross, rebuild the fane? +Free learning from felonious chains, +And give to youth immortal gains? +What signal mercy from on high?-- +Hush! hark! I hear an infant's cry, +The answer of a new-born child, +From Iveragh's far mountain wild. + +Yes, 'tis the cry of a child, feeble and faint in the night, + But soon to thunder in tones that will rouse both tyrants and slaves. +Yes, 'tis the sob of a stream just awake in its source on the height, + But soon to spread as a sea, and rush with the roaring of waves. + +Yes, 'tis the cry of a child affection hastens to still, + But what shall silence ere long the victor voice of the man? +Easy it is for a branch to bar the flow of the rill, + But all the forest would fail where raging the torrent once ran. + +And soon the torrent will run, and the pent-up waters o'erflow, + For the child has risen to a man, and a shout replaces the cry; +And a voice rings out through the world, so wingèd with Erin's woe, + That charmed are the nations to listen, and the Destinies to reply. + +Boyhood had passed away from that child, predestined by fate + To dry the eyes of his mother, to end the worst of her ills, +And the terrible record of wrong, and the annals of hell and hate, + Had gathered into his breast like a lake in the heart of the hills. + +Brooding over the past, he found himself but a slave, + With manacles forged on his mind, and fetters on every limb; +The land that was life to others, to him was only a grave, + And however the race he ran no victor wreath was for him. + +The fane of learning was closed, shut out was the light of day, + No ray from the sun of science, no brightness from Greece or Rome, +And those who hungered for knowledge, like him, had to fly away, + Where bountiful France threw wide the gates that were shut at home. + +And there he happily learned a lore far better than books, + A lesson he taught for ever, and thundered over the land, +That Liberty's self is a terror, how lovely may be her looks, + If religion is not in her heart, and reverence guide not her hand. + +The steps of honour were barred: it was not for him to climb, + No glorious goal in the future, no prize for the labour of life, +And the fate of him and his people seemed fixed for all coming time + To hew the wood of the helot and draw the waters of strife. + +But the glorious youth returning + Back from France the fair and free, +Rage within his bosom burning, + Such a servile sight to see, + Vowed to heaven it should not be. +"No!" the youthful champion cried, +"Mother Ireland, widowed bride, +If thy freedom can be won +By the service of a son, + Then, behold that son in me. +I will give thee every hour, +Every day shall be thy dower, +In the splendour of the light, +In the watches of the night, +In the shine and in the shower, +I shall work but for thy right." +</pre> +<center> +<h4>1782-1800.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +A dazzling gleam of evanescent glory, + Had passed away, and all was dark once more, +One golden page had lit the mournful story, + Which ruthless hands with envious rage out-tore. + +One glorious sun-burst, radiant and far-reaching, + Had pierced the cloudy veil dark ages wove, +When full-armed Freedom rose from Grattan's teaching, + As sprang Minerva from the brain of Jove. + +Oh! in the transient light that had outbroken, + How all the land with quickening fire was lit! +What golden words of deathless speech were spoken, + What lightning flashes of immortal wit! + +Letters and arts revived beneath its beaming, + Commerce and Hope outspread their swelling sails, +And with "Free Trade" upon their standard gleaming, + Now feared no foes and dared adventurous gales. + +Across the stream the graceful arch extended, + Above the pile the rounded dome arose, +The soaring spire to heaven's high vault ascended, + The loom hummed loud as bees at evening's close. + +And yet 'mid all this hope and animation, + The people still lay bound in bigot chains, +Freedom that gave some slight alleviation, + Could dare no panacea for their pains. + +Yet faithful to their country's quick uprising, + Like some fair island from volcanic waves, +They shared the triumph though their claims despising, + And hailed the freedom though themselves were slaves. + +But soon had come the final compensation, + Soon would the land one brotherhood have known, +Had not some spell of hellish incantation + The new-formed fane of Freedom overthrown. + +In one brief hour the fair mirage had faded, + No isle of flowers lay glad on ocean's green, +But in its stead, deserted and degraded, + The barren strand of Slavery's shore was seen. +</pre> +<center> +<h4>1800-1829.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +Yet! 'twas on that barren strand +Sing his praise throughout the world! + Yet, 'twas on that barren strand, +O'er a cowed and broken band, + That his solitary hand + Freedom's flag unfurled. +Yet! 'twas there in Freedom's cause, + Freedom from unequal laws, + Freedom for each creed and class, + For humanity's whole mass, + That his voice outrang;-- + And the nation at a bound, + Stirred by the inspiring sound, + To his side up-sprang. + +Then the mighty work began, +Then the war of thirty years-- +Peaceful war, when words were spears, +And religion led the van. +When O'Connell's voice of power, +Day by day and hour by hour, +Raining down its iron shower, + Laid oppression low, +Till at length the war was o'er, +And Napoleon's conqueror, +Yielded to a mightier foe. +</pre> +<center> +<h4>1829.</h4> +</center> +<pre> + Into the senate swept the mighty chief, + Like some great ocean wave across the bar + Of intercepting rock, whose jagged reef + But frets the victor whom it cannot mar. + Into the senate his triumphal car + Rushed like a conqueror's through the broken gates + Of some fallen city, whose defenders are + Powerful no longer to resist the fates, +But yield at last to him whom wondering Fame awaits. + + And as "sweet foreign Spenser" might have sung, + Yoked to the car two wingèd steeds were seen, + With eyes of fire and flashing hoofs outflung, + As if Apollo's coursers they had been. + These were quick Thought and Eloquence, I ween, + Bounding together with impetuous speed, + While overhead there waved a flag of green, + Which seemed to urge still more each flying steed, +Until they reached the goal the hero had decreed. + + There at his feet a captive wretch lay bound, + Hideous, deformed, of baleful countenance, + Whom as his blood-shot eye-balls glared around, + As if to kill with their malignant glance, + I knew to be the fiend Intolerance. + But now no longer had he power to slay, + For Freedom touched him with Ithuriel's lance, + His horrid form revealing by its ray, +And showed how foul a fiend the world could once obey. + + Then followed after him a numerous train, + Each bearing trophies of the field he won: + Some the white wand, and some the civic chain, + Its golden letters glistening in the sun; + Some--for the reign of justice had begun-- + The ermine robes that soon would be the prize + Of spotless lives that all pollution shun, + And some in mitred pomp, with upturned eyes, +And grateful hearts invoked a blessing from the skies. +</pre> +<center> +<h4>1843-1847.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +A glorious triumph! a deathless deed!-- + Shall the hero rest and his work half done? +Is it enough to enfranchise a creed, + When a nation's freedom may yet be won? +Is it enough to hang on the wall + The broken links of the Catholic chain, +When now one mighty struggle for ALL + May quicken the life in the land again?-- + +May quicken the life, for the land lay dead; + No central fire was a heart in its breast,-- +No throbbing veins, with the life-blood red, + Ran out like rivers to east or west: +Its soul was gone, and had left it clay-- + Dull clay to grow but the grass and the root; +But harvests for <i>Men,</i> ah! where were they?-- + And where was the tree for Liberty's fruit? + +Never till then, in victory's hour, + Had a conqueror felt a joy so sweet, +As when the wand of his well-won power + O'Connell laid at his country's feet. +"No! not for me, nor for mine alone," + The generous victor cried, "Have I fought, +But to see my Eire again on her throne; + Ah, that was my dream and my guiding thought. + +To see my Eire again on her throne, + Her tresses with lilies and shamrocks twined, +Her severed sons to a nation grown, + Her hostile hues in one flag combined; +Her wisest gathered in grave debate, + Her bravest armed to resist the foe: +To see my country 'glorious and great,'-- + To see her 'free,'--to fight I go!" + +And forth he went to the peaceful fight, + And the millions rose at his words of fire, +As the lightning's leap from the depth of the night, + And circle some mighty minster's spire: +Ah, ill had it fared with the hapless land, + If the power that had roused could not restrain? +If the bolts were not grasped in a glowing hand + To be hurled in peals of thunder again? + +And thus the people followed his path, + As if drawn on by a magic spell,-- +By the royal hill and the haunted rath, + By the hallowed spring and the holy well, +By all the shrines that to Erin are dear, + Round which her love like the ivy clings,-- +Still folding in leaves that never grow sere + The cell of the saint and the home of kings. + +And a soul of sweetness came into the land: + Once more was the harp of Erin strung; +Once more on the notes from some master hand + The listening land in its rapture hung. +Once more with the golden glory of words + Were the youthful orator's lips inspired, +Till he touched the heart to its tenderest chords, + And quickened the pulse which his voice had fired. + +And others divinely dowered to teach-- + High souls of honour, pure hearts of fire, +So startled the world with their rhythmic speech, + That it seemed attuned to some unseen lyre. +But the kingliest voice God ever gave man + Words sweeter still spoke than poet hath sung,-- +For a nation's wail through the numbers ran, + And the soul of the Celt exhaled on his tongue. + +And again the foe had been forced to yield; + But the hero at last waxed feeble and old, +Yet he scattered the seed in a fruitful field, + To wave in good time as a harvest of gold. +Then seeking the feet of God's High Priest, + He slept by the soft Ligurian Sea, +Leaving a light, like the Star in the East, + To lead the land that will yet be free. +</pre> +<center> +<h4>1875.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +A hundred years their various course have run, +Since Erin's arms received her noblest son, +And years unnumbered must in turn depart +Ere Erin fails to fold him to her heart. +He is our boast, our glory, and our pride, +For us he lived, fought, suffered, dared, and died; +Struck off the shackles from each fettered limb, +And all we have of best we owe to him. +If some cathedral, exquisitely fair, +Lifts its tall turrets through the wondering air, +Though art or skill its separate offering brings, +'Tis from O'Connell's heart the structure springs. +If through this city on these festive days, +Halls, streets, and squares are bright with civic blaze +Of glittering chains, white wands, and flowing gowns, +The red-robed senates of a hundred towns, +Whatever rank each special spot may claim, +'Tis from O'Connell's hand their charters came. +If in the rising hopes of recent years +A mighty sound reverberates on our ears, +And myriad voices in one cry unite +For restoration of a ravished right, +'Tis the great echo of that thunder blast, +On Tara pealed or mightier Mullaghmast, +If arts and letters are more widely spread, +A Nile o'erflowing from its fertile bed, +Spreading the rich alluvium whence are given +Harvests for earth and amaranth flowers for heaven; +If Science still, in not unholy walls, +Sets its high chair, and dares unchartered halls, +And still ascending, ever heavenward soars, +While capped Exclusion slowly opes it doors, +It is his breath that speeds the spreading tide, +It is his hand the long-locked door throws wide. +Where'er we turn the same effect we find-- +O'Connell's voice still speaks his country's mind. +Therefore we gather to his birthday feast +Prelate and peer, the people and the priest; +Therefore we come, in one united band, +To hail in him the hero of the land, +To bless his memory, and with loud acclaim +To all the winds, on all the wings of fame +Waft to the listening world the great O'Connell's name. +</pre> +<p><a name="p229" id="p229"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>MOORE.</h3> +<h4>M<font size="-1">AY</font> 28<font size="-1">TH</font>, 1879.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +Joy to Ierné, joy, + This day a deathless crown is won, + Her child of song, her glorious son, +Her minstrel boy +Attains his century of fame, + Completes his time-allotted zone, +And proudly with the world's acclaim + Ascends the lyric throne. + +Yes, joy to her whose path so long, + Slow journeying to her realm of rest + O'er many a rugged mountain's crest, +He charmed with his enchanting song: +Like his own princess in the tale, + When he who had her way beguiled + Through many a bleak and desert wild +Until she reached Cashmere's bright vale +Had ceased those notes to play and sing + To which her heart responsive swelled, + She looking up, in him beheld +Her minstrel lover and her king;-- +So Erin now, her journey well-nigh o'er, +Enraptured sees her minstrel king in Moore. + +And round that throne whose light to-day + O'er all the world is cast, +In words though weak, in hues though faint, +Congenial fancy rise and paint + The spirits of the past +Who here their homage pay-- + Those who his youthful muse inspired, + Those who his early genius fired +To emulate their lay: +And as in some phantasmal glass +Let the immortal spirits pass, +Let each renew the inspiring strain, +And fire the poet's soul again. + +First there comes from classic Greece, +Beaming love and breathing peace, +With her pure, sweet smiling face, +The glory of the Æolian race, +Beauteous Sappho, violet-crowned, +Shedding joy and rapture round: +In her hand a harp she bears, +Parent of celestial airs, +Love leaps trembling from each wire, +Every chord a string of fire:-- +How the poet's heart doth beat, +How his lips the notes repeat, +Till in rapture borne along, +The Sapphic lute, the lyrist's song, +Blend in one delicious strain, +Never to divide again. + +And beside the Æolian queen +Great Alcæus' form is seen: +He takes up in voice more strong +The dying cadence of the song, +And on loud resounding strings +Hurls his wrath on tyrant kings:-- +Like to incandescent coal +On the poet's kindred soul +Fall these words of living flame, +Till their songs become the same,-- +The same hate of slavery's night, +The same love of freedom's light, +Scorning aught that stops its way, +Come the black cloud whence it may, +Lift alike the inspirèd song, +And the liquid notes prolong. + +Carolling a livelier measure +Comes the Teian bard of pleasure, +Round his brow where joy reposes +Radiant love enwreaths his roses, +Rapture in his verse is ringing, +Soft persuasion in his singing:-- +'Twas the same melodious ditty +Moved Polycrates to pity, +Made that tyrant heart surrender +Captive to a tone so tender: +To the younger bard inclining, +Round his brow the roses twining, +First the wreath in red wine steeping, +He his cithern to his keeping +Yields, its glorious fate foreseeing, +From her chains a nation freeing, +Fetters new around it flinging +In the flowers of his own singing. + +But who is this that from the misty cloud + Of immemorial years, +Wrapped in the vesture of his vaporous shroud + With solemn steps appears? +His head with oak-leaves and with ivy crowned + Lets fall its silken snow, +While the white billows of his beard unbound + Athwart his bosom flow: +Who is this venerable form +Whose hands, prelusive of the storm + Across his harp-strings play-- +That harp which, trembling in his hand, +Impatient waits its lord's command + To pour the impassioned lay? +Who is it comes with reverential hail + To greet the bard who sang his country best +'Tis Ossian--primal poet of the Gael-- + The Homer of the West. + +He sings the heroic tales of old + When Ireland yet was free, +Of many a fight and foray bold, + And raid beyond the sea. + +Of all the famous deeds of Fin, + And all the wiles of Mave, +Now thunders 'mid the battle's din, + Now sobs beside the wave. + +That wave empurpled by the sword + The hero used too well, +When great Cuchullin held the ford, + And fair Ferdiah fell. + +And now his prophet eye is cast + As o'er a boundless plain; +He sees the future as the past, + And blends them in his strain. + +The Red-Branch Knights their flags unfold + When danger's front appears, +The sunburst breaks through clouds of gold + To glorify their spears. + +But, ah! a darker hour drew nigh, + The hour of Erin's woe, +When she, though destined not to die, + Lay prostrate 'neath the foe. + +When broke were all the arms she bore, + And bravely bore in vain, +Till even her harp could sound no more + Beneath the victor's chain. + +Ah! dire constraint, ah! cruel wrong, + To fetter thus its chord, +But well they knew that Ireland's song + Was keener than her sword. + +That song would pierce where swords would fail, + And o'er the battle's din, +The sweet, sad music of the Gael + A peaceful victory win. + +Long was the trance, but sweet and low + The harp breathed out again +Its speechless wail, its wordless woe, + In Carolan's witching strain. + +Until at last the gift of words + Denied to it so long, +Poured o'er the now enfranchised chords + The articulate light of song. + +Poured the bright light from genius won, + That woke the harp's wild lays; +Even as that statue which the sun + Made vocal with his rays. + +Thus Ossian in disparted dream + Outpoured the varied lay, +But now in one united stream + His rapture finds its way:-- + +"Yes, in thy hands, illustrious son, + The harp shall speak once more, +Its sweet lament shall rippling run + From listening shore to shore. + +Till mighty lands that lie unknown + Far in the fabled west, +And giant isles of verdure thrown + Upon the South Sea's breast. + +And plains where rushing rivers flow-- + Fit emblems of the free-- +Shall learn to know of Ireland's woe, + And Ireland's weal through thee." + +'Twas thus he sang, +And while tumultuous plaudits rang + From the immortal throng, +In the younger minstrel's hand +He placed the emblem of the land-- + The harp of Irish song. + +Oh! what dulcet notes are heard. +Never bird +Soaring through the sunny air +Like a prayer +Borne by angel's hands on high +So entranced the listening sky +As his song-- +Soft, pathetic, joyous, strong, +Rising now in rapid flight +Out of sight +Like a lark in its own light, +Now descending low and sweet +To our feet, +Till the odours of the grass +With the light notes as they pass +Blend and meet: +All that Erin's memory guards +In her heart, +Deeds of heroes, songs of bards, +Have their part. + +Brian's glories reappear, +Fionualla's song we hear, +Tara's walls resound again +With a more inspirèd strain, +Rival rivers meet and join, +Stately Shannon blends with Boyne; +While on high the storm-winds cease +Heralding the arch of peace. + +And all the bright creations fair + That 'neath his master-hand awake, +Some in tears and some in smiles, +Like Nea in the summer isles, + Or Kathleen by the lonely lake, +Round his radiant throne repair: +Nay, his own Peri of the air + Now no more disconsolate, + Gives in at Fame's celestial gate +His passport to the skies-- + The gift to heaven most dear, + His country's tear. +From every lip the glad refrain doth rise, +"Joy, ever joy, his glorious task is done, +The gates are passed and Fame's bright heaven is won!" + +Ah! yes, the work, the glorious work is done, +And Erin crowns to-day her brightest son, +Around his brow entwines the victor bay, +And lives herself immortal in his lay-- +Leads him with honour to her highest place, +For he had borne his more than mother's name +Proudly along the Olympic lists of fame +When mighty athletes struggled in the race. +Byron, the swift-souled spirit, in his pride +Paused to cheer on the rival by his side, +And Lycidas, so long +Lost in the light of his own dazzling song, +Although himself unseen, +Gave the bright wreath that might his own have been +To him whom 'mid the mountain shepherd throng, +The minstrels of the isles, +When Adonais died so fair and young, +Ierné sent from out her green defiles +"The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, +And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue." +And he who sang of Poland's kindred woes, +And Hope's delicious dream, +And all the mighty minstrels who arose +In that auroral gleam +That o'er our age a blaze of glory threw +Which Shakspere's only knew-- +Some from their hidden haunts remote, +Like him the lonely hermit of the hills, +Whose song like some great organ note +The whole horizon fills. +Or the great Master, he whose magic hand, +Wielding the wand from which such wonder flows, +Transformed the lineaments of a rugged land, +And left the thistle lovely as the rose. +Oh! in a concert of such minstrelsy, +In such a glorious company, +What pride for Ireland's harp to sound, +For Ireland's son to share, +What pride to see him glory-crowned, +And hear amid the dazzling gleam +Upon the rapt and ravished air +Her harp still sound supreme! + +Glory to Moore, eternal be the glory + That here we crown and consecrate to-day, +Glory to Moore, for he has sung our story + In strains whose sweetness ne'er can pass away. + +Glory to Moore, for he has sighed our sorrow + In such a wail of melody divine, +That even from grief a passing joy we borrow, + And linger long o'er each lamenting line. + +Glory to Moore, that in his songs of gladness + Which neither change nor time can e'er destroy, +Though mingled oft with some faint sigh of sadness, + He sings his country's rapture and its joy. + +What wit like his flings out electric flashes + That make the numbers sparkle as they run: +Wit that revives dull history's Dead-sea ashes, + And makes the ripe fruit glisten in the sun? + +What fancy full of loveliness and lightness + Has spread like his as at some dazzling feast, +The fruits and flowers, the beauty and the brightness, + And all the golden glories of the East? + +Perpetual blooms his bower of summer roses, + No winter comes to turn his green leaves sere, +Beside his song-stream where the swan reposes + The bulbul sings as by the Bendemeer. + +But back returning from his flight with Peris, + Above his native fields he sings his best, +Like to the lark whose rapture never wearies, + When poised in air he singeth o'er his nest. + +And so we rank him with the great departed, + The kings of song who rule us from their urns, +The souls inspired, the natures noble hearted, + And place him proudly by the side of Burns. + +And as not only by the Calton Mountain, + Is Scotland's bard remembered and revered, +But whereso'er, like some o'erflowing fountain, + Its hardy race a prosperous path has cleared. + +There 'mid the roar of newly-rising cities, + His glorious name is heard on every tongue, +There to the music of immortal ditties, + His lays of love, his patriot songs are sung. + +So not alone beside that bay of beauty + That guards the portals of his native town +Where like two watchful sentinels on duty, + Howth and Killiney from their heights look down. + +But wheresoe'er the exiled race hath drifted, + By what far sea, what mighty stream beside, +There shall to-day the poet's name be lifted, + And Moore proclaimed its glory and its pride: + +There shall his name be held in fond memento, + There shall his songs resound for evermore, +Whether beside the golden Sacramento, + Or where Niagara's thunder shakes the shore. + +For all that's bright indeed must fade and perish, + And all that's sweet when sweetest not endure, +Before the world shall cease to love and cherish + The wit and song, the name and fame of MOORE. +</pre> +<p><a name="p239" id="p239"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2><i>Miscellaneous Poems.</i></h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +<h3>THE SPIRIT OF THE SNOW.</h3> +</center> +<pre> + The night brings forth the morn-- + Of the cloud is lightning born; +From out the darkest earth the brightest roses grow. + Bright sparks from black flints fly, + And from out a leaden sky +Comes the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow. + + The wondering air grows mute, + As her pearly parachute +Cometh slowly down from heaven, softly floating to and fro; + And the earth emits no sound, + As lightly on the ground +Leaps the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow. + + At the contact of her tread, + The mountain's festal head, +As with chaplets of white roses, seems to glow; + And its furrowed cheek grows white + With a feeling of delight, +At the presence of the Spirit of the Snow. + + As she wendeth to the vale, + The longing fields grow pale-- +The tiny streams that vein them cease to flow; + And the river stays its tide + With wonder and with pride, +To gaze upon the Spirit of the Snow. + + But little doth she deem + The love of field or stream-- +She is frolicsome and lightsome as the roe; + She is here and she is there, + On the earth or in the air, +Ever changing, floats the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now a daring climber, she + Mounts the tallest forest tree-- +Out along the giddy branches doth she go; + And her tassels, silver-white, + Down swinging through the night, +Mark the pillow of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now she climbs the mighty mast, + When the sailor boy at last +Dreams of home in his hammock down below + There she watches in his stead + Till the morning sun shines red, +Then evanishes the Spirit of the Snow. + + Or crowning with white fire. + The minster's topmost spire +With a glory such as sainted foreheads show; + She teaches fanes are given + Thus to lift the heart to heaven, +There to melt like the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now above the loaded wain, + Now beneath the thundering train, +Doth she hear the sweet bells tinkle and the snorting engine blow; + Now she flutters on the breeze, + Till the branches of the trees +Catch the tossed and tangled tresses of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now an infant's balmy breath + Gives the spirit seeming death, +When adown her pallid features fair Decay's damp dew-drops flow; + Now again her strong assault + Can make an army halt, +And trench itself in terror 'gainst the Spirit of the Snow. + + At times with gentle power, + In visiting some bower, +She scarce will hide the holly's red, the blackness of the sloe; + But, ah! her awful might, + When down some Alpine height +The hapless hamlet sinks before the Spirit of the Snow. + + On a feather she floats down + The turbid rivers brown, +Down to meet the drifting navies of the winter-freighted floe; + Then swift o'er the azure walls + Of the awful waterfalls, +Where Niagara leaps roaring, glides the Spirit of the Snow. + + With her flag of truce unfurled, + She makes peace o'er all the world-- +Makes bloody battle cease awhile, and war's unpitying woe; + Till, its hollow womb within, + The deep dark-mouthed culverin +Encloses, like a cradled child, the Spirit of the Snow. + + She uses in her need + The fleetly-flying steed-- +Now tries the rapid reindeer's strength, and now the camel slow; + Or, ere defiled by earth, + Unto her place of birth, +Returns upon the eagle's wing the Spirit of the Snow. + + Oft with pallid figure bowed, + Like the Banshee in her shroud, +Doth the moon her spectral shadow o'er some silent gravestone throw; + Then moans the fitful wail, + And the wanderer grows pale, +Till at morning fades the phantom of the Spirit of the Snow. + + In her ermine cloak of state + She sitteth at the gate +Of some winter-prisoned princess in her palace by the Po; + Who dares not to come forth + Till back unto the North +Flies the beautiful besieger--the Spirit of the Snow. + + In her spotless linen hood, + Like the other sisterhood, +She braves the open cloister when the psalm sounds sweet and low; + When some sister's bier doth pass + From the minster and the Mass, +Soon to sink into the earth, like the Spirit of the Snow. + + But at times so full of joy, + She will play with girl and boy, +Fly from out their tingling fingers, like white fireballs on the foe; + She will burst in feathery flakes, + And the ruin that she makes +Will but wake the crackling laughter of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Or in furry mantle drest, + She will fondle on her breast +The embryo buds awaiting the near Spring's mysterious throe; + So fondly that the first + Of the blossoms that outburst +Will be called the beauteous daughter of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Ah! would that we were sure + Of hearts so warmly pure, +In all the winter weather that this lesser life must know; + That when shines the Sun of Love + From the warmer realm above, +In its light we may dissolve, like the Spirit of the Snow. +</pre> +<p><a name="p243" id="p243"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO THE BAY OF DUBLIN.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +My native Bay, for many a year +I've lov'd thee with a trembling fear, +Lest thou, though dear and very dear, + And beauteous as a vision, +Shouldst have some rival far away, +Some matchless wonder of a bay, +Whose sparkling waters ever play + 'Neath azure skies elysian. + +'Tis Love, methought, blind Love that pours +The rippling magic round these shores, +For whatsoever Love adores + Becomes what Love desireth: +'Tis ignorance of aught beside +That throws enchantment o'er the tide, +And makes my heart respond with pride + To what mine eye admireth, + +And thus, unto our mutual loss, +Whene'er I paced the sloping moss +Of green Killiney, or across + The intervening waters, +Up Howth's brown sides my feet would wend, +To see thy sinuous bosom bend, +Or view thine outstretch'd arms extend + To clasp thine islet daughters; + +Then would this spectre of my fear +Beside me stand--How calm and clear +Slept underneath, the green waves, near + The tide-worn rocks' recesses; +Or when they woke, and leapt from land, +Like startled sea-nymphs, hand-in-hand, +Seeking the southern silver strand + With floating emerald tresses: + +It lay o'er all, a moral mist, +Even on the hills, when evening kissed +The granite peaks to amethyst, + I felt its fatal shadow: +It darkened o'er the brightest rills, +It lowered upon the sunniest hills, +And hid the wingèd song that fills + The moorland and the meadow. + +But now that I have been to view +All even Nature's self can do, +And from Gaeta's arch of blue + Borne many a fond memento; +And from each fair and famous scene, +Where Beauty is, and Power hath been, +Along the golden shores between + Misenum and Sorrento: + +I can look proudly in thy face, +Fair daughter of a hardier race, +And feel thy winning well-known grace, + Without my old misgiving; +And as I kneel upon thy strand, +And kiss thy once unvalued hand, +Proclaim earth holds no lovelier land, + Where life is worth the living. +</pre> +<p><a name="p245" id="p245"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO ETHNA.</h3> +</center> +<pre> + First loved, last loved, best loved of all I've loved! + Ethna, my boyhood's dream, my manhood's light, + Pure angel spirit, in whose light I've moved, + Full many a year, along life's darksome night! + Thou wert my star, serenely shining bright + Beyond youth's passing clouds and mists obscure + Thou wert the power that kept my spirit white, + My soul unsoiled, my heart untouched and pure. +Thine was the light from heaven that ever must endure. + + Purest, and best, and brightest, no mishap, + No chance, or change can break our mutual ties; + My heart lies spread before thee like a map, + Here roll the tides, and there the mountains rise; + Here dangers frown and there hope's streamlet flies, + And golden promontories cleave the main: + And I have looked into thy lustrous eyes, + And saw the thought thou couldst not all restrain, +A sweet, soft, sympathetic pity for my pain! + + Dearest, and best, I dedicate to thee, + From this hour forth, my hopes, my dreams, my cares, + All that I am, and all I e'er may be, + Youth's clustering locks, and age's thin white hairs; + Thou by my side, fair vision, unawares-- + Sweet saint--shalt guard me as with angel's wings; + To thee shall rise the morning's hopeful prayers, + The evening hymns, the thoughts that midnight brings, +The worship that like fire out of the warm heart springs. + + Thou wilt be with me through the struggling day, + Thou wilt be with me through the pensive night, + Thou wilt be with me, though far, far away + Some sad mischance may snatch you from my sight, + In grief, in pain, in gladness, in delight, + In every thought thy form shall bear a part, + In every dream thy memory shall unite, + Bride of my soul! and partner of my heart! +Till from the dreadful bow flieth the fatal dart! + + Am I deceived? and do I pine and faint + For worth that only dwells in heaven above, + And if thou'rt not the Ethna that I paint, + Then thou art not the Ethna that I love; + If thou art not as gentle as the dove, + And good as thou art beautiful, the tooth + Of venomed serpent will not deadlier prove + Than that dark revelation; but in sooth, +Ethna, I wrong thee, dearest, for thy name is TRUTH. +</pre> +<p><a name="p246" id="p246"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>"NOT KNOWN."</h3> +<p>On receiving through the Post-Office a Returned Letter +from an old residence, marked on the envelope, "Not Known."</p> +</center> +<pre> +A beauteous summer-home had I + As e'er a bard set eyes on-- +A glorious sweep of sea and sky, + Near hills and far horizon. +Like Naples was the lovely bay, + The lovely hill like Rio-- +And there I lived for many a day + In Campo de Estío. + +It seemed as if the magic scene + No human skill had planted; +The trees remained for ever green, + As if they were enchanted: +And so I said to Sweetest-eyes, + My dear, I think that <i>we</i> owe +To fairy hands this paradise + Of Campo de Estío. + +How swiftly flew the hours away! + I read and rhymed and revelled; +In interchange of work and play, + I built, and drained, and levelled; +"The Pope," so "happy," days gone by + (Unlike our ninth Pope Pio), +Was far less happy then than I + In Campo de Estío. + +For children grew in that sweet place, + As in the grape wine gathers-- +Their mother's eyes in each bright face, + In each light heart, their father's: +Their father, who by some was thought + A literary <i>leo,</i> +Ne'er dreamed he'd be so soon forgot + In Campo de Estío. + +But so it was:--Of hope bereft, + A year had scarce gone over, +Since he that sweetest place had left, + And gone--we'll say--to Dover, +When letters came where he had flown. + Returned him from the "P. O.," +On which was writ, O Heavens! "NOT KNOWN + IN CAMPO DE ESTIO!" + +"Not known" where he had lived so long, + A "cintra" home created, +Where scarce a shrub that now is strong + But had its place debated; +Where scarce a flower that now is shown, + But shows <i>his</i> care: O Dio! +And now to be described, "Not known + In Campo de Estío." + +That pillar from the Causeway brought-- + This fern from Connemara-- +That pine so long and widely sought-- + This Cedrus deodara-- +That bust (if Shakespeare's doth survive, + And busts had brains and <i>brio</i>), +Might keep his name at least alive + In Campo de Estío. + +When Homer went from place to place, + The glorious siege reciting +(Of course I presuppose the case + Of reading and of writing), +I've little doubt the Bard divine + His letters got from Scio, +Inscribed "Not known," Ah! me, like mine + From Campo de Estío. + +The poet, howsoe'er inspired, + Must brave neglect and danger; +When Philip Massinger expired, + The death-list said "a stranger!" +A stranger! yes, on earth, but let + The poet sing <i>laus Deo!</i>-- +Heaven's glorious summer waits him yet-- + God's "Campo de Estío." +</pre> +<p><a name="p248" id="p248"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE LAY MISSIONER.</h3> +</center> +<pre> + Had I a wish--'twere this, that heaven would make + My heart as strong to imitate as love, + That half its weakness it could leave, and take + Some spirit's strength, by which to soar above, + A lordly eagle mated with a dove. + Strong-will and warm affection, these be mine; + Without the one no dreams has fancy wove, + Without the other soon these dreams decline, +Weak children of the heart, which fade away and pine! + + Strong have I been in love, if not in will; + Affections crowd and people all the past, + And now, even now, they come and haunt me still, + Even from the graves where once my hopes were cast. + But not with spectral features--all aghast-- + Come they to fright me; no, with smiles and tears, + And winding arms, and breasts that beat as fast + As once they beat in boyhood's opening years, +Come the departed shades, whose steps my rapt soul hears. + + Youth has passed by, its first warm flush is o'er, + And now, 'tis nearly noon; yet unsubdued + My heart still kneels and worships, as of yore, + Those twin-fair shapes, the Beautiful and Good! + Valley and mountain, sky and stream, and wood, + And that fair miracle, the human face, + And human nature in its sunniest mood, + Freed from the shade of all things low and base,-- +These in my heart still hold their old accustom'd place. + + 'Tis not with pride, but gratitude, I tell + How beats my heart with all its youthful glow, + How one kind act doth make my bosom swell, + And down my cheeks the sweet, warm, glad tears flow. + Enough of self, enough of me you know, + Kind reader, but if thou wouldst further wend, + With me, this wilderness of weak words thro', + Let me depict, before the journey end, +One whom methinks thou'lt love, my brother and my friend. + + Ah! wondrous is the lot of him who stands + A Christian Priest, with a Christian fane, + And binds with pure and consecrated hands, + Round earth and heaven, a festal, flower chain; + Even as between the blue arch and the main, + A circling western ring of golden light + Weds the two worlds, or as the sunny rain + Of April makes the cloud and clay unite, +Thus links the Priest of God the dark world and the bright. + + All are not priests, yet priestly duties may + And should be all men's: as a common sight + We view the brightness of a summer's day, + And think 'tis but its duty to be bright; + But should a genial beam of warming light + Suddenly break from out a wintry sky, + With gratitude we own a new delight, + Quick beats the heart and brighter beams the eye, +And as a boon we hail the splendour from on high. + + 'Tis so with men, with those of them at least + Whose hearts by icy doubts are chill'd and torn; + They think the virtues of a Christian Priest + Something professional, put on and worn + Even as the vestments of a Sabbath morn: + But should a friend or act or teach as he, + Then is the mind of all its doubting shorn, + The unexpected goodness that they see +Takes root, and bears its fruit, as uncoerced and free! + + One I have known, and haply yet I know, + A youth by baser passions undefiled, + Lit by the light of genius and the glow + Which real feeling leaves where once it smiled; + Firm as a man, yet tender as a child; + Armed at all points by fantasy and thought, + To face the true or soar amid the wild; + By love and labour, as a good man ought, +Ready to pay the price by which dear truth is bought! + + 'Tis not with cold advice or stern rebuke, + With formal precept, or wit face demure, + But with the unconscious eloquence of look, + Where shines the heart so loving and so pure: + 'Tis these, with constant goodness, that allure + All hearts to love and imitate his worth. + Beside him weaker natures feel secure, + Even as the flower beside the oak peeps forth, +Safe, though the rain descends, and blows the biting North! + + Such is my friend, and such I fain would be, + Mild, thoughtful, modest, faithful, loving, gay, + Correct, not cold, nor uncontroll'd though free, + But proof to all the lures that round us play, + Even as the sun, that on his azure way + Moveth with steady pace and lofty mien, + Though blushing clouds, like syrens, woo his stay, + Higher and higher through the pure serene, +Till comes the calm of eve and wraps him from the scene. +</pre> +<p><a name="p251" id="p251"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE SPIRIT OF THE IDEAL.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Sweet sister spirits, ye whose starlight tresses + Stream on the night-winds as ye float along, +Missioned with hope to man--and with caresses + +To slumbering babes--refreshment to the strong-- + And grace the sensuous soul that it's arrayed in: +As the light burden of melodious song + +Weighs down a poet's words;--as an o'erladen + Lily doth bend beneath its own pure snow; +Or with its joy, the free heart of a maiden:-- + +Thus, I behold your outstretched pinions grow + Heavy with all the priceless gifts and graces +God through thy ministration doth bestow. + +Do ye not plant the rose on youthful faces? + And rob the heavens of stars for Beauty's eyes? +Do ye not fold within love's pure embraces + +All that Omnipotence doth yet devise + For human bliss, or rapture superhuman-- +Heaven upon earth, and earth still in the skies? + +Do ye not sow the fruitful heart of woman + With tenderest charities and faith sincere, +To feed man's sterile soul and to illumine + +His duller eyes, that else might settle here, + With the bright promise of a purer region-- +A starlight beacon to a starry sphere? + +Are they not all thy children, that bright legion-- + Of aspirations, and all hopeful sighs +That in the solemn train of grave Religion + +Strew heavenly flowers before man's longing eyes, + And make him feel, as o'er life's sea he wendeth, +The far-off odorous airs of Paradise?-- + +Like to the breeze some flowery island sendeth + Unto the seaman, ere its bowers are seen, +Which tells him soon his weary wandering endeth-- + +Soon shall he rest, in bosky shades of green, + By daisied meadows prankt with dewy flowers, +With ever-running rivulets between. + +These are thy tasks, my sisters--these the powers + God in his goodness gives into thy hands:-- +'Tis from thy fingers fall the diamond showers + +Of budding Spring, and o'er the expectant lands + June's odorous purple and rich Autumn's gold: +And even when needful Winter wide expands + +His fallow wings, and winds blow sharp and cold + From the harsh east, 'tis thine, o'er all the plain, +The leafless woodlands and the unsheltered wold, + +Gently to drop the flakes of feathery rain-- + Heaven's warmest down--around the slumbering seeds, +And o'er the roots the frost-blanched counterpane. + +What though man's careless eye but little heeds + Even the effects, much less the remoter cause, +Still, in the doing of beneficent deeds-- + +By God and his Vicegerent Nature's laws-- + Ever a compensating joy is found. +Think ye the rain-drop heedeth if it draws + +Rankness as well as Beauty from the ground? + Or that the sullen wind will deign to wake +Only Æolian melodies of sound-- + +And not the stormy screams that make men quake + Thus do ye act, my sisters; thus ye <i>do</i> +Your cheerful duty for the doing's sake-- + +Not unrewarded surely--not when you + See the successful issue of your charms, +Bringing the absent back again to view-- + +Giving the loved one to the lover's arms-- + Smoothing the grassy couch in weary age-- +Hushing in death's great calm a world's alarms. + +I, I alone upon the earth's vast stage + Am doomed to act an unrequited part-- +I, the unseen preceptress of the sage-- + +I, whose ideal form doth win the heart + Of all whom God's vocation hath assigned +To wear the sacred vesture of high Art-- + +To pass along the electric sparks of mind + From age to age, from race to race, until +The expanding truth encircles all mankind. + +What without me were all the poet's skill?-- + Dead, sensuous form without the quickening soul. +What without me the instinctive aim of will?-- + +A useless magnet pointing to no pole. + What the fine ear and the creative hand? +Most potent spirits free from man's control. + +I, THE IDEAL, by the poet stand + When all his soul o'erflows with holy fire, +When currents of the beautiful and grand + +Run glittering down along each burning wire + Until the heart of the great world doth feel +The electric shock of his God-kindled lyre:-- + +Then rolls the thunderous music peal on peal, + Or in the breathless after-pause, a strain +Simpler and sweeter through the hush doth steal-- + +Like to the pattering drops of summer rain + Or rustling grass, when fragrance fills the air +And all the groves are vocal once again: + +Whatever form, whatever shape I bear, + The Spirit of high Impulse, and the Soul +Of all conceptions beautiful and rare, + +Am I; who now swift spurning all control, + On rapid wings--the Ariel of the Muse-- +Dart from the dazzling centre to the pole; + +Now in the magic mimicry of hues + Such as surround God's golden throne, descend +In Titian's skies the boundaries to confuse + +Betwixt earth's heaven and heaven's own heaven to blend + In Raphael's forms the human and divine, +Where spirit dawns, and matter seems to end. + +Again on wings of melody, so fine + They mock the sight, but fall upon the ear +Like tuneful rose-leaves at the day's decline-- + +And with the music of a happier sphere + Entrance some master of melodious sound, +Till startled men the hymns of angels hear. + +Happy for me when, in the vacant round + Of barren ages, one great steadfast soul +Faithful to me and to his art is found. + +But, ah! my sisters, with my grief condole; + Join in my sorrows and respond my sighs; +And let your sobs the funeral dirges toll; + +Weep those who falter in the great emprise-- + Who, turning off upon some poor pretence, +Some worthless guerdon or some paltry prize, + +Down from the airy zenith through the immense + Sink to the low expedients of an hour, +And barter soul for all the slough of sense,-- + +Just when the mind had reached its regal power, + And fancy's wing its perfect plume unfurl'd,-- +Just when the bud of promise in the flower + +Of all completeness opened on the world-- + When the pure fire that heaven itself outflung +Back to its native empyrean curled, + +Like vocal incense from a censer swung:-- + Ah, me! to be subdued when all seemed won-- +That I should fly when I would fain have clung. + +Yet so it is,--our radiant course is run;-- + Here we must part, the deathless lay unsung, +And, more than all, the deathless deed undone. +</pre> +<p><a name="p256" id="p256"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>RECOLLECTIONS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Ah! summer time, sweet summer scene, + When all the golden days, + Linked hand-in-hand, like moonlit fays, +Danced o'er the deepening green. + +When, from the top of Pelier[111] down + We saw the sun descend, + With smiles that blessings seemed to send +To our near native town. + +And when we saw him rise again + High o'er the hills at morn-- + God's glorious prophet daily born +To preach good will to men-- + +Good-will and peace to all between + The gates of night and day-- + Join with me, love, and with me say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +Sweet summer time, true age of gold, + When hand-in-hand we went + Slow by the quickening shrubs, intent +To see the buds unfold: + +To trace new wild flowers in the grass, + New blossoms on the bough, + And see the water-lilies now +Rise o'er the liquid glass. + +When from the fond and folding gale + The scented briar I pulled, + Or for thy kindred bosom culled +The lily of the vale;-- + +Thou without whom were dark the green, + The golden turned to gray, + Join with me, love, and with me say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +Sweet summer time, delight's brief reign, + Thou hast one memory still, + Dearer than ever tree or hill +Yet stretched along life's plain. + +Stranger than all the wond'rous whole, + Flowers, fields, and sunset skies-- + To see within our infant's eyes +The awakening of the soul. + +To see their dear bright depths first stirred + By the far breath of thought, + To feel our trembling hearts o'erfraught +With rapture when we heard + +Her first clear laugh, which might have been + A cherub's laugh at play-- + Ah! love, thou canst but join and say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +Sweet summer time, sweet summer days, + One day I must recall; + One day the brightest of them all, +Must mark with special praise. + +'Twas when at length in genial showers + The spring attained its close; + And June with many a myriad rose +Incarnadined the bowers: + +Led by the bright and sun-warm air, + We left our indoor nooks; + Thou with my paper and my books, +And I thy garden chair; + +Crossed the broad, level garden-walks, + With countless roses lined; + And where the apple still inclined +Its blossoms o'er the box, + +Near to the lilacs round the pond, + In its stone ring hard by + We took our seats, where save the sky, +And the few forest trees beyond + +The garden wall, we nothing saw, + But flowers and blossoms, and we heard + Nought but the whirring of some bird, +Or the rooks' distant, clamorous caw. + +And in the shade we saw the face + Of our dear infant sleeping near, + And thou wert by to smile and hear, +And speak with innate truth and grace. + +There through the pleasant noontide hours + My task of echoed song I sung; + Turning the golden southern tongue +Into the iron ore of ours! + +'Twas the great Spanish master's pride, + The story of the hero proved; + 'Twas how the Moorish princess loved, +And how the firm Fernando died.[112] + +O happiest season ever seen, + O day, indeed the happiest day; + Join with me, love, and with me say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +One picture more before I close + Fond Memory's fast dissolving views; + One picture more before I lose +The radiant outlines as they rose. + +'Tis evening, and we leave the porch, + And for the hundredth time admire + The rhododendron's cones of fire +Rise round the tree, like torch o'er torch. + +And for the hundredth time point out + Each favourite blossom and perfume-- + If the white lilac still doth bloom, +Or the pink hawthorn fadeth out: + +And by the laurell'd wall, and o'er + The fields of young green corn we've gone; + And by the outer gate, and on +To our dear friend's oft-trodden door. + +And there in cheerful talk we stay, + Till deepening twilight warns us home; + Then once again we backward roam +Calmly and slow the well-known way-- + +And linger for the expected view-- + Day's dying gleam upon the hill; + Or listen for the whip-poor-will,[113] +Or the too seldom shy cuckoo. + +At home the historic page we glean, + And muse, and hope, and praise, and pray-- + Join with me, love, as then, and say-- +Sweet summer time and scene! +</pre> +<p><sup>111</sup> Mount Pelier, in the county of Dublin, overlooking + Rathfarnham, and more remotely Dundrum.  To a brief residence + near the latter village the "Recollections" rendered in this + poem are to be referred.</p> +<p><sup>112</sup> Calderon's "El Principe Constante," translated in the + earlier volumes of the author's Calderon.  London, 1853.</p> +<p><sup>113</sup> I do not know the bird to which I have given this Indian + name.  It, however, imitated its note quite distinctly.</p> +<p><a name="p260a" id="p260a"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>DOLORES.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The moon of my soul is dark, Dolores, + Dead and dark in my breast it lies, +For I miss the heaven of thy smile, Dolores, + And the light of thy brown bright eyes. + +The rose of my heart is gone, Dolores, + Bud or blossom in vain I seek; +For I miss the breath of thy lip, Dolores, + And the blush of thy pearl-pale cheek. + +The pulse of my heart is still, Dolores, + Still and chill is its glowing tide; +For I miss the beating of thine, Dolores, + In the vacant space by my side. + +But the moon shall revisit my soul, Dolores, + And the rose shall refresh my heart, +When I meet thee again in heaven, Dolores, + Never again to part. +</pre> +<p><a name="p260b" id="p260b"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>LOST AND FOUND.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +"Whither art thou gone, fair Una? + Una fair, the moon is gleaming; +Fear no mortal eye, fair Una, + For the very flowers are dreaming. +And the twinkling stars are closing + Up their weary watching glances, +Warders on heaven's walls reposing, + While the glittering foe advances. + +"Una dear, my heart is throbbing, + Full of throbbings without number; +Come! the tired-out streams are sobbing + Like to children ere they slumber; +And the longing trees inclining, + Seek the earth's too distant bosom; +Sad fate! that keeps from intertwining + The earthly and the aerial blossom. + +"Una dear, I've roamed the mountain, + Round the furze and o'er the heather; +Una, dear, I've sought the fountain + Where we rested oft together; +Ah! the mountain now looks dreary, + Dead and dark where no life liveth; +Ah! the fountain, to the weary, + Now, no more refreshment giveth. + +"Una, darling, dearest daughter + Beauty ever gave to Fancy, +Spirit of the silver water, + Nymph of Nature's necromancy! +Fair enchantress, fond magician, + Is thine every spell-word spoken? +Hast thou closed thy fairy mission? + Is thy potent wand then broken? + +"Una dearest, deign to hear me, + Fly no more my prayer resisting!" +Then a trembling voice came near me, + Like a maiden to the trysting, +Like a maiden's feet approaching + Where the lover doth attend her; +Half-forgiving, half-reproaching, + Came that voice so shy and tender. + +"Must I blame thee, must I chide thee, + Change to scorn the love I bore thee? +And the fondest heart beside thee, + And the truest eyes before thee. +And the kindest hands to press thee, + And the instinctive sense to guide thee, +And the purest lips to bless thee, + What, O dreamer! is denied thee? + +"Hast thou not the full fruition, + Hast thou not the full enjoyance +Of thy young heart's fond ambition, + Free from every feared annoyance +Thou hast sighed for truth and beauty, + Hast thou failed, then, in thy wooing? +Dreamed of some ideal duty, + Is there nought that waits thy doing?-- + +"Is the world less bright or beauteous, + That dear eyes behold it <i>with</i> thee? +Is the work of life less duteous, + That thou art helped to do it, prithee? +Is the near rapture non-existent, + Because thou dreamest an ideal? +And canst thou for a glimmering distant + Forget the blessings of the real? + +"Down on thy knees, O doubting dreamer! + Down! and repent thy heart's misprision." +Scarce had I knelt in tears and tremor, + When the scales fell from off my vision. +<i>There</i> stood my human guardian angel, + Given me by God's benign foreseeing, +While from her lips came life's evangel, + "Live! that each day complete thy being!" +</pre> +<p><a name="p262" id="p262"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>SPRING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND.</h3> +<p>On receiving an early crocus and some violets in a letter from Ireland.</p> +</center> +<pre> +Within the letter's rustling fold + I find once more a glad surprise-- +A little tiny cup of gold-- + Two little lovely violet eyes; +A cup of gold with emeralds set, + Once filled with wine from happier spheres; +Two little eyes so lately wet + With spring's delicious dewy tears. + +Oh! little eyes that wept and laughed, + Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim, +Oh! little cup that once was quaffed + By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim. +I press each silken fringe's fold, + Sweet little eyes once more ye shine; +I kiss thy lip, oh, cup of gold, + And find thee full of Memory's wine. + +Within their violet depths I gaze, + And see as in the camera's gloom, +The island with its belt of bays, + Its chieftained heights all capped with broom, +Which as the living lens it fills, + Now seems a giant charmed to sleep-- +Now a broad shield embossed with hills + Upon the bosom of the deep. + +When will the slumbering giant wake? + When will the shield defend and guard? +Ah, me! prophetic gleams forsake + The once rapt eyes of seer or bard. +Enough, if shunning Samson's fate, + It doth not all its vigour yield; +Enough, if plenteous peace, though late, + May rest beneath the sheltering shield. + +I see the long and lone defiles + Of Keimaneigh's bold rocks uphurled, +I see the golden fruited isles + That gem the queen-lakes of the world; +I see--a gladder sight to me-- + By soft Shangânah's silver strand, +The breaking of a sapphire sea + Upon the golden-fretted sand. + +Swiftly the tunnel's rock-hewn pass, + Swiftly the fiery train runs through; +Oh! what a glittering sheet of glass! + Oh! what enchantment meets my view! +With eyes insatiate I pursue, + Till Bray's bright headland bounds the scene. +'Tis Baiæ, by a softer blue! + Gäeta, by a gladder green! + +By tasseled groves, o'er meadows fair, + I'm carried in my blissful dream, +To where--a monarch in the air-- + The pointed mountain reigns supreme; +There in a spot remote and wild, + I see once more the rustic seat, +Where Carrigoona, like a child, + Sits at the mightier mountain's feet. + +There by the gentler mountain's slope, + That happiest year of many a year, +That first swift year of love and hope, + With her then dear and ever dear, +I sat upon the rustic seat, + The seat an aged bay-tree crowns, +And saw outspreading from our feet + The golden glory of the Downs. + +The furze-crowned heights, the glorious glen, + The white-walled chapel glistening near, +The house of God, the homes of men, + The fragrant hay, the ripening ear; +There where there seemed nor sin nor crime, + There in God's sweet and wholesome air-- +Strange book to read at such a time-- + We read of Vanity's false Fair. + +We read the painful pages through, + Perceived the skill, admired the art, +Felt them if true, not wholly true, + A truer truth was in our heart. +Save fear and love of One, hath proved + The sage how vain is all below; +And one was there who feared and loved, + And one who loved that she was so. + +The vision spreads, the memories grow, + Fair phantoms crowd the more I gaze, +Oh! cup of gold, with wine o'erflow, + I'll drink to those departed days: +And when I drain the golden cup + To them, to those I ne'er can see, +With wine of hope I'll fill it up, + And drink to days that yet may be. + +I've drunk the future and the past, + Now for a draught of warmer wine-- +One draught, the sweetest and the last, + Lady, I'll drink to thee and thine. +These flowers that to my breast I fold, + Into my very heart have grown; +To thee I'll drain the cup of gold, + And think the violet eyes thine own. +</pre> +<p><i>Boulogne, March, 1865.</i></p> +<p><a name="p265" id="p265"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO THE MEMORY OF FATHER PROUT.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +In deep dejection, but with affection, + I often think of those pleasant times, +In the days of Fraser, ere I touched a razor, + How I read and revell'd in thy racy rhymes; +When in wine and wassail, we to thee were vassal, + Of Watergrass-hill, O renowned P.P.! + May the bells of Shandon + Toll blithe and bland on + The pleasant waters of thy memory! + +Full many a ditty, both wise and witty, + In this social city have I heard since then +(With the glass before me, how the dream comes o'er me, + Of those Attic suppers, and those vanished men). +But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken, + Or hath left a token of such joy in me + As "The Bells of Shandon + That sound so grand on + The pleasant waters of the river Lee." + +The songs melodious, which--a new Harmodius-- + "Young Ireland" wreathed round its rebel sword, +With their deep vibrations and aspirations, + Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive board! +But to me seems sweeter, with a tone completer, + The melodious metre that we owe to thee-- + Of the bells of Shandon + That sound so grand on + The pleasant waters of the river Lee. + +There's a grave that rises o'er thy sward, Devizes, + Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar, +And a white stone flashes over Goldsmith's ashes + In quiet cloisters by Temple Bar; +So where'er thou sleepest, with a love that's deepest, + Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee, + While the Bells of Shandon + Shall sound so grand on + The pleasant waters of the river Lee. +</pre> +<p><a name="p266" id="p266"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THOSE SHANDON BELLS.</h3> +</center> +<p>[The remains of the Rev. Francis Mahony were laid in the +family burial-place in St. Anne Shandon Churchyard, the +"Bells," which he has rendered famous, tolling the knell of +the poet, who sang of their sweet chimes.]</p> +<pre> +Those Shandon bells, those Shandon bells! +Whose deep, sad tone now sobs, now swells-- +Who comes to seek this hallowed ground, +And sleep within their sacred sound? + +'Tis one who heard these chimes when young, +And who in age their praises sung, +Within whose breast their music made +A dream of home where'er he strayed. + +And, oh! if bells have power to-day +To drive all evil things away, +Let doubt be dumb, and envy cease-- +And round his grave reign holy peace. + +True love doth love in turn beget, +And now these bells repay the debt; +Whene'er they sound, their music tells +Of him who sang sweet Shandon bells! +</pre> +<p><i>May 30, 1866.</i></p> +<p><a name="p267a" id="p267a"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>YOUTH AND AGE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +To give the blossom and the fruit + The soft warm air that wraps them round, +Oh! think how long the toilsome root + Must live and labour 'neath the ground. + +To send the river on its way, + With ever deepening strength and force, +Oh! think how long 'twas let to play, + A happy streamlet, near its source. +</pre> +<p><a name="p267b" id="p267b"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO JUNE.</h3> +<h5>WRITTEN AFTER AN UNGENIAL MAY.</h5> +</center> +<pre> +I'll heed no more the poet's lay-- + His false-fond song shall charm no more-- + My heart henceforth shall but adore +The real, not the misnamed May. + +Too long I've knelt, and vainly hung + My offerings round an empty name; + O May! thou canst not be the same +As once thou wert when Earth was young. + +Thou canst not be the same to-day-- + The poet's dream--the lover's joy:-- + The floral heaven of girl and boy +Were heaven no more, if thou wert May. + +If thou wert May, then May is cold, + And, oh! how changed from what she has been-- + Then barren boughs are bright with green, +And leaden skies are glad with gold. + +And the dark clouds that veiled thy moon + Were silvery-threaded tissues bright, + Looping the locks of amber light +That float but on the airs of June. + +O June! thou art the real May; + Thy name is soft and sweet as hers + But rich blood thy bosom stirs, +Her marble cheek cannot display. + +She cometh like a haughty girl, + So conscious of her beauty's power, + She now will wear nor gem nor flower +Upon her pallid breast of pearl. + +And her green silken summer dress, + So simply flower'd in white and gold, + She scorns to let our eyes behold, +But hides through very wilfulness: + +Hides it 'neath ermined robes, which she + Hath borrowed from some wintry quean, + Instead of dancing on the green-- +A village maiden fair and free. + +Oh! we have spoiled her with our praise, + And made her froward, false, and vain; + So that her cold blue eyes disdain +To smile as in the earlier days. + +Let her beware--the world full soon + Like me shall tearless turn away, + And woo, instead of thine, O May! +The brown, bright, joyous eyes of June. + +O June! forgive the long delay, + My heart's deceptive dream is o'er-- + Where I believe I <i>will</i> adore, +Nor worship June, yet kneel to May. +</pre> +<p><a name="p269" id="p269"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Summer is a glorious season + Warm, and bright, and pleasant; +But the Past is not a reason + To despise the Present. +So while health can climb the mountain, + And the log lights up the hall, +There are sunny days in Winter, after all! + +Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us, + Maiden-like in charms; +Summer, too, with all her promise, + Perished in our arms. +But the memory of the vanished, + Whom our hearts recall, +Maketh sunny days in Winter, after all! + +True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh, + All the best are dead; +But the wall-flower still perfumeth + Yonder garden-bed. +And the arbutus pearl-blossom'd + Hangs its coral ball-- +There are sunny days in Winter, after all! + +Summer trees are pretty,--very, + And love them well: +But this holly's glistening berry, + None of those excel. +While the fir can warm the landscape, + And the ivy clothes the wall, +There are sunny days in Winter, after all! + +Sunny hours in every season + Wait the innocent-- +Those who taste with love and reason + What their God hath sent. +Those who neither soar too highly, + Nor too lowly fall, +Feel the sunny days of Winter, after all! + +Then, although our darling treasures + Vanish from the heart; +Then, although our once-loved pleasures + One by one depart; +Though the tomb looms in the distance, + And the mourning pall, +There is sunshine, and no Winter, after all! +</pre> +<p><a name="p270" id="p270"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE BIRTH OF THE SPRING.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +O Kathleen, my darling, I've dreamt such a dream, +'Tis as hopeful and bright as the summer's first beam: +I dreamt that the World, like yourself, darling dear, +Had presented a son to the happy New Year! +Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered awhile, +But like yours was the joy, at her baby's first smile, +When the tender nurse, Nature, quick hastened to fling +Her sun-mantle round, as she fondled THE SPRING. + +O Kathleen, 'twas strange how the elements all, +With their friendly regards, condescended to call: +The rough rains of winter like summer-dews fell, +And the North-wind said, zephyr-like: "Is the World well?" +And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell o'er the earth +God's goodness to man in this mystical birth; +For a Son of this World, and an heir to the King +Who rules over man, is this beautiful Spring! + +O Kathleen, methought, when the bright babe was born, +More lovely than morning appeared the bright morn; +The birds sang more sweetly, the grass greener grew, +And with buds and with blossoms the old trees looked new; +And methought when the Priest of the Universe came-- +The Sun--in his vestments of glory and flame, +He was seen, the warm raindrops of April to fling +On the brow of the babe, and baptise him The Spring! + +O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! what treasures are piled +In the mines of the past for this wonderful Child! +The lore of the sages, the lays of the bards, +Like a primer, the eye of this infant regards; +All the dearly-bought knowledge that cost life and limb, +Without price, without peril, is offered to him; +And the blithe bee of Progress concealeth its sting, +As it offers its sweets to the beautiful Spring! + +O Kathleen, they tell us of wonderful things, +Of speed that surpasseth the fairy's fleet wings; +How the lands of the world in communion are brought, +And the slow march of speech is as rapid as thought. +Think, think what an heir-loom the great world will be +With this wonderful wire 'neath the earth and the sea; +When the snows and the sunshine together shall bring +All the wealth of the world to the feet of The Spring. + +Oh! Kathleen, but think of the birth-gifts of love, +That THE MASTER who lives in the GREAT HOUSE above +Prepares for the poor child that's born on His land-- +Dear God! they're the sweet flowers that fall from Thy hand-- +The crocus, the primrose, the violet given +Awhile, to make earth the reflection of heaven; +The brightness and lightness that round the world wing +Are thine, and are ours too, through thee, happy Spring! + +O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! that dream is gone by, +And I wake once again, but, thank God! thou art by; +And the land that we love looks as bright in the beam, +Just as if my sweet dream was not all out a dream, +The spring-tide of Nature its blessing imparts, +Let the spring-tide of Hope send its pulse through our hearts; +Let us feel 'tis a mother, to whose breast we cling, +And a brother we hail, when we welcome the Spring. +</pre> +<p><a name="p272" id="p272"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>ALL FOOL'S DAY.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The Sun called a beautiful Beam, that was playing + At the door of his golden-wall'd palace on high; +And he bade him be off, without any delaying, + To a fast-fleeting Cloud on the verge of the sky: +"You will give him this letter," said roguish Apollo + (While a sly little twinkle contracted his eye), +With my royal regards; and be sure that you follow + Whatsoever his Highness may send in reply." + +The Beam heard the order, but being no novice, + Took it coolly, of course--nor in this was he wrong-- +But was forced (being a clerk in Apollo's post-office) + To declare (what a bounce!) that he wouldn't be long; +So he went home and dress'd--gave his beard an elision-- + Put his scarlet coat on, nicely edged with gold lace; +And thus being equipped, with a postman's precision, + He prepared to set out on his nebulous race. + +Off he posted at last, but just outside the portals + He lit on earth's high-soaring bird in the dark; +So he tarried a little, like many frail mortals, + Who, when sent on an errand, first go on a lark; +But he broke from the bird--reach'd the cloud in a minute-- + Gave the letter and all, as Apollo ordained; +But the Sun's correspondent, on looking within it, + Found, "Send the fool farther," was all it contained. + +The Cloud, who was up to all mystification, + Quite a humorist, saw the intent of the Sun; +And was ever too airy--though lofty his station-- + To spoil the least taste of the prospect of fun; +So he hemm'd, and he haw'd--took a roll of pure vapour, + Which the light from the beam made as bright as could be, +(Like a sheet of the whitest cream golden-edg'd paper), + And wrote a few words, superscribed, "To the Sea." + +"My dear Beam," or "dear Ray" (t'was thus coolly he hailed him), + "Pray take down to Neptune this letter from me, +For the person you seek--though I lately regaled him-- + Now tries a new airing, and dwells by the sea." +So our Mercury hastened away through the ether, + The bright face of Thetis to gladden and greet; +And he plunged in the water a few feet beneath her, + Just to get a sly peep at her beautiful feet. + +To Neptune the letter was brought for inspection-- + But the god, though a deep one, was still rather green; +So he took a few moments of steady reflection, + Ere he wholly made out what the missive could mean: +But the date (it was "April the first") came to save it + From all fear of mistake; so he took pen in hand, +And, transcribing the cruel entreaty, he gave it + To our travel-tired friend, and said, "Bring it to Land." + +To Land went the Sunbeam, which scarcely received it, + When it sent it, post-haste, back again to the sea; +The Sea's hypocritical calmness deceived it, + And sent it once more to the Land on the lea;-- +From the Land to the Lake--from the Lakes to the Fountains-- + From the Fountains and Streams to the Hills' azure crest, +'Till, at last, a tall Peak on the top of the mountains, + Sent it back to the Cloud in the now golden west. + +He saw the whole trick by the way he was greeted + By the Sun's laughing face, which all purple appears; +Then, amused, yet annoyed at the way he was treated, + He first laughed at the joke, and then burst into tears. +It is thus that this day of mistakes and surprises, + When fools write on foolscap, and wear it the while, +This gay saturnalia for ever arises + 'Mid the showers and the sunshine, the tear and the smile. +</pre> +<p><a name="p275" id="p275"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>DARRYNANE.</h3> +<p>[Written in 1844, after a visit to Darrynane Abbey.]</p> +</center> +<pre> +Where foams the white torrent, and rushes the rill, +Down the murmuring slopes of the echoing hill-- +Where the eagle looks out from his cloud-crested crags, +And the caverns resound with the panting of stags-- +Where the brow of the mountain is purple with heath, +And the mighty Atlantic rolls proudly beneath, +With the foam of its waves like the snowy <i>fenane</i>--[114] +Oh! that is the region of wild Darrynane! + +Oh! fair are the islets of tranquil Glengariff, +And wild are the sacred recesses of Scariff, +And beauty, and wildness, and grandeur commingle +By Bantry's broad bosom, and wave-wasted Dingle; +But wild as the wildest, and fair as the fairest, +And lit by a lustre that thou alone wearest-- +And dear to the eye and the free heart of man +Are the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane! + +And who is the Chief of this lordly domain? +Does a slave hold the land where a monarch might reign? +Oh! no, by St. Finbar,[115] nor cowards, nor slaves, +Could live in the sound of these free, dashing waves! +A chieftain, the greatest the world has e'er known-- +Laurel his coronet--true hearts his throne-- +Knowledge his sceptre--a Nation his clan-- +O'Connell, the chieftain of proud Darrynane! + +A thousand bright streams on the mountains awake, +Whose waters unite in O'Donoghue's lake-- +Streams of Glanflesk and the dark Gishadine +Filling the heart of that valley divine! +Then rushing in one mighty artery down +To the limitless ocean by murmuring Lowne--[116] +Thus Nature unfolds in her mystical plan +A type of the Chieftain of wild Darrynane! + +In him every pulse of our bosoms unite-- +Our hatred of wrong and our worship of right-- +The hopes that we cherish, the ills we deplore, +All centre within his heart's innermost core, +Which, gathered in one mighty current, are flung +To the ends of the earth from his thunder-toned tongue! +Till the Indian looks up, and the valiant Afghan +Draws his sword at the echo from far Darrynane! + +But here he is only the friend and the father, +Who from children's sweet lips truest wisdom can gather, +And seeks from the large heart of Nature to borrow +Rest for the present and strength for the morrow! +Oh! who that e'er saw him with children about him +And heard his soft tones of affection could doubt him? +My life on the truth of the heart of that man +That throbs like the Chieftain's of wild Darrynane! + +Oh! wild Darrynane, on thy ocean-washed shore, +Shall the glad song of mariners echo once more? +Shall the merchants, and minstrels, and maidens of Spain, +Once again in their swift ships come over the main? +Shall the soft lute be heard, and the gay youths of France +Lead our blue-eyed young maidens again to the dance? +Graceful and shy as thy fawns, Killenane,[117] +Are the mind-moulded maidens of far Darrynane! + +Dear land of the south, as my mind wandered o'er +All the joys I have felt by thy magical shore, +From those lakes of enchantment by oak-clad Glená +To the mountainous passes of bold Iveragh! +Like birds which are lured to a haven of rest, +By those rocks far away on the ocean's bright breast--[118] +Thus my thoughts loved to linger, as memory ran +O'er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane! +</pre> +<p><sup>114</sup> "In the mountains of Slievelougher, + and other parts of this county, the country people, towards the end of June, + cut the coarse mountain grass, called by them <i>fenane;</i> towards + August this grass grows white."—<i>Smith's Kerry.</i></p> +<p><sup>115</sup> The abbey on the grounds of Darrynane was + founded in the seventh century by the monks of St. Finbar.</p> +<p><sup>116</sup> The river Lowne is + the only outlet by which all the streams that form the Lakes of Killarney + discharge themselves into the sea—<i>Lan,</i> or <i>Lowne,</i> in the + old Irish signifying full.</p> +<p><sup>117</sup> "Killenane lies to the east of Cahir.  + It has many mountains towards the sea.  + These mountains are frequented by herds of fallow deer, that range about it + in perfect security."—<i>Smith's Kerry.</i></p> +<p><sup>118</sup> The Skellig Rocks.  + In describing one of them, Keating + says "That there is a certain attractive virtue in the soil + which draws down all the birds which attempt to fly over it, + and obliges them to alight upon the rock."</p> +<p><a name="p277" id="p277"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE.</h3> +<p>(On receiving a Shamrock in a Letter from Ireland.)</p> +</center> +<pre> +O postman! speed thy tardy gait-- + Go quicker round from door to door; +For thee I watch, for thee I wait, + Like many a weary wanderer more. +Thou brightest news of bale and bliss-- + Some life begun, some life well o'er. +He stops--he rings!--O heaven! what's this?-- + A shamrock from the Irish shore! + +Dear emblem of my native land, + By fresh fond words kept fresh and green; +The pressure of an unfelt hand-- + The kisses of a lip unseen; +A throb from my dead mother's heart-- + My father's smile revived once more-- +Oh, youth! oh, love! oh, hope thou art, + Sweet shamrock from the Irish shore! + +Enchanter, with thy wand of power, + Thou mak'st the past be present still: +The emerald lawn--the lime-leaved bower-- + The circling shore--the sunlit hill; +The grass, in winter's wintriest hours, + By dewy daisies dimpled o'er, +Half hiding, 'neath their trembling flowers, + The shamrock of the Irish shore! + +And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed, + By queenly Florence, kingly Rome-- +By Padua's long and lone arcade-- + By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam-- +By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed + <i>My</i> poet sailing calmly o'er; +By all, by each, I mourned and missed + The shamrock of the Irish shore! + +I saw the palm-tree stand aloof, + Irresolute 'twixt the sand and sea: +I saw upon the trellised roof + Outspread the wine that was to be; +A giant-flowered and glorious tree + I saw the tall magnolia soar; +But there, even there, I longed for thee, + Poor shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Now on the ramparts of Boulogne, + As lately by the lonely Rance, +At evening as I watch the sun, + I look! I dream! Can this be France +Not Albion's cliffs, how near they be, + He seems to love to linger o'er; +But gilds, by a remoter sea, + The shamrock on the Irish shore! + +I'm with him in that wholesome clime-- + That fruitful soil, that verdurous sod-- +Where hearts unstained by vulgar crime + Have still a simple faith in God: +Hearts that in pleasure and in pain, + The more they're trod rebound the more, +Like thee, when wet with heaven's own rain, + O shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Memorial of my native land, + True emblem of my land and race-- +Thy small and tender leaves expand + But only in thy native place. +Thou needest for thyself and seed + Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er; +Transplanted thou'rt the merest weed, + O shamrock of the Irish shore. + +Here on the tawny fields of France, + Or in the rank, red English clay, +Thou showest a stronger form perchance; + A bolder front thou mayest display, +More able to resist the scythe + That cut so keen, so sharp before; +But then thou art no more the blithe + Bright shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Ah, me! to think--thy scorns, thy slights, + Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave +On Fredericksburg's ensanguined heights, + Or by Potomac's purpled wave! +Ah, me! to think that power malign + Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore, +And what calm rapture might be thine, + Sweet shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet, + True type of trustful love thou art; +Thou liest the whole year at my feet, + To live but one day at my heart. +One day of festal pride to lie + Upon the loved one's heart--what more? +Upon the loved one's heart to die, + O shamrock of the Irish shore! + +And shall I not return thy love? + And shalt thou not, as thou shouldst, be +Placed on thy son's proud heart above + The red rose or the fleur-de-lis? +Yes, from these heights the waters beat, + I vow to press thy cheek once more, +And lie for ever at thy feet, + O shamrock of the Irish shore! +</pre> +<p><i>Boulogne-sur-Mer, March 17, 1865.</i></p> +<p><a name="p280" id="p280"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>ITALIAN MYRTLES.</h3> +<p>[Suggested by seeing for the first time +fire-flies in the myrtle hedges at Spezzia.]</p> +</center> +<pre> +By many a soft Ligurian bay + The myrtles glisten green and bright, +Gleam with their flowers of snow by day, + And glow with fire-flies through the night, +And yet, despite the cold and heat, +Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. + +There is an island in the West, + Where living myrtles bloom and blow, +Hearts where the fire-fly Love my rest + Within a paradise of snow-- +Which yet, despite the cold and heat, +Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. + +Deep in that gentle breast of thine-- + Like fire and snow within the pearl-- +Let purity and love combine, + O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl! +And in the cold and in the heat +Be ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. + +Thy bosom bears as pure a snow + As e'er Italia's bowers can boast, +And though no fire-fly lends its glow-- + As on the soft Ligurian coast-- +'Tis warmed by an internal heat +Which ever keeps it pure and sweet. + +The fire-flies fade on misty eves-- + The inner fires alone endure; +Like rain that wets the leaves, + Thy very sorrows keep thee pure-- +They temper a too ardent heat-- +And keep thee ever pure and sweet. +</pre> +<p><i>La Spezzia, 1862.</i></p> +<p><a name="p281" id="p281"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +"Oh! come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; +Oh! come with me, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; +Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, +Who, prattling climb thy agéd knees, and call thy daughter--mother. + +"Oh come, and leave this land of death--this isle of desolation-- +This speck upon the sunbright face of God's sublime creation, +Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most malign hath risen, +When Labour seeks the poorhouse, and Innocence the prison. + +"'Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the husky wheat is bending; +'Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better time is sending; +'Tis true the island's aged face looks happier and younger, +But in the best of days we've known the sickness and the hunger. + +"When health breathed out in every breeze, too oft we've known the fever-- +Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the bereaver: +Too well remember many a time the mournful task that brought him, +When freshness fanned the summer air, and cooled the glow of autumn. + +"But then the trial, though severe, still testified our patience, +We bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's wise dispensations; +We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise and a warning, +Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the morning. + +"But now through all the black expanse no hopeful morning breaketh-- +No bird of promise in our hearts the gladsome song awaketh; +No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of expectation-- +Nought but the gloom that might precede the world's annihilation. + +"So, mother, turn thy agéd feet, and let our children lead 'em +Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty and to freedom; +Forgetting nought of all the past, yet all the past forgiving; +Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly unto the living. + +"They tell us, they who read and think of Ireland's ancient story, +How once its emerald flag flung out a sunburst's fleeting glory +Oh! if that sun will pierce no more the dark clouds that efface it, +Fly where the rising stars of heaven commingle to replace it. + +"So come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; +Oh! come with us, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; +Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, +Who, prattling, climb thy agéd knees, and call thy daughter--mother." + +"Ah! go, my children, go away--obey this inspiration; +Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; +Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies; +Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's. + +"But though I feel how sharp the pang from thee and thine to sever, +To look upon these darling ones the last time and for ever; +Yet in this sad and dark old land, by desolation haunted, +My heart has struck its roots too deep ever to be transplanted. + +"A thousand fibres still have life, although the trunk is dying, +They twine around the yet green grave where thy father's bones are lying; +Ah! from that sad and sweet embrace no soil on earth can loose 'em, +Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, and golden sands its bosom. + +"Others are twined around the stone, where ivy-blossoms smother +The crumbling lines that trace your names, my father and my mother; +God's blessing be upon their souls--God grant, my old heart prayeth, +Their names be written in the Book whose writing ne'er decayeth. + +"Alas! my prayers would never warm within those great cold buildings, +Those grand cathedral churches with their marbles and their gildings; +Far fitter than the proudest dome that would hang in splendour o'er me, +Is the simple chapel's white-washed wall, where my people knelt before me. + +"No doubt it is a glorious land to which you now are going, +Like that which God bestowed of old, with milk and honey flowing; +But where are the blessed saints of God, whose lives of his law remind me, +Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columkille, in the land I'd leave behind me? + +"So leave me here, my children, with my old ways and old notions; +Leave me here in peace, with my memories and devotions; +Leave me in sight of your father's grave, and as the heavens allied us, +Let not, since we were joined in life, even the grave divide us. + +"There's not a week but I can hear how you prosper better and better, +For the mighty fire-ships o'er the sea will bring the expected letter; +And if I need aught for my simple wants, my food or my winter firing, +You will gladly spare from your growing store a little for my requiring. + +"Remember with a pitying love the hapless land that bore you; +At every festal season be its gentle form before you; +When the Christmas candle is lighted, and the holly and ivy glisten, +Let your eye look back for a vanished face--for a voice that is silent, listen! + +"So go, my children, go away--obey this inspiration; +Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; +Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies; +Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's." +</pre> +<p><a name="p286" id="p286"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE RAIN: A SONG OF PEACE.<sup>119</sup></h3> +</center> +<pre> +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain-- +Welcome, welcome, it cometh again; +It cometh with green to gladden the plain, +And to wake the sweets in the winding lane. + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +It fills the flowers to their tiniest vein, +Till they rise from the sod whereon they had lain-- +Ah, me! ah, me! like an army slain. + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +Each drop is a link of a diamond chain +That unites the earth with its sin and its stain +To the radiant realm where God doth reign. + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +Each drop is a tear not shed in vain, +Which the angels weep for the golden grain +All trodden to death on the gory plain; + +For Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +Will waken the golden seeds again! +But, ah! what power will revive the slain, +Stark lying death over fair Lorraine? + +'Twere better far, O beautiful Rain, +That you swelled the torrent and flooded the main; +And that Winter, with all his spectral train, +Alone lay camped on the icy plain. + +For then, O Rain, O beautiful Rain, +The snow-flag of peace were unfurl'd again; +And the truce would be rung in each loud refrain +Of the blast replacing the bugle's strain. + +Then welcome, welcome, beautiful Rain, +Thou bringest flowers to the parched-up plain; +Oh! for many a frenzied heart and brain, +Bring peace and love to the world again! +</pre> +<p><i>August 28, 1870.</i></p> +<p><sup>119</sup> Written during the Franco-German war.</p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<p><font size="-1">M. H. Gill & Sons, Printers, Dublin.</font></p> +<p><a name="note-2004" id="note-2004"></a></p> +<hr width="75%" /> +<h3>Transcriber's Notes.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><i>Source.</i>  The collection of poems here presented follows as + closely as possible the 1882 first edition.  I assembled this e-text + over several years, either typing or scanning one poem at a time as the + spirit moved me.  Some poems were transcribed either from the 1884 + second edition, or from D. F. MacCarthy's earlier publications, depending on + whatever happened to be handy at the time.  I have proofread this entire + e-text against the 1882 edition.  In many instances there are minor + variations, mostly in punctuation, among the different source + material.  In some cases, if the 1882 edition clearly has an error, I + have used the other works as a guide.  Where there are variations that + are not obviously errors, I have followed the 1882 edition.  It is + certainly possible, where I transcribed from a non-1882 source, that a few + variations may have slipt my notice, and have not been changed.</li> +<li><i>General.</i>  In the printed source the first word of each section + and poem is in S<font size="-2">MALL</font> C<font size="-2">APITALS</font>, + which I have removed as per Project Gutenberg standards.  Due to HTML + programming reasons associated with text within <pre></pre> + tags (very useful for formatting poetry) instances of + S<font size="-2">MALL</font> C<font size="-2">APITALS</font> within the poems + are rendered as ALL CAPITALS.  In the printed source the patronymic + prefix "Mac" is always followed by a half space; due to limitations in this + electronic format I have rendered names in ALL CAPITALS with a full space + (MAC CAURA) and names in Mixed Capitals without any space (MacCaura) + throughout.  For various reasons the longest line of code in this file + is 79 characters; this means that in some poems I had to wrap the ends of very + long verses to the next line.</li> +<li><i>Footnotes.</i>  In the printed source footnotes are marked with an + asterisk, dagger, et cetera and placed at the bottom of each page.  In + this electronic version I have numbered the footnotes and placed them below + each section or poem.  Due to HTML programming reasons, note references + within a poem are given in [brackets], elsewhere they are given as + <sup>superscript</sup> text.</li> +<li><i><a href="#contents">Contents</a>.</i>  I have removed the page + numbers from the contents list.  Text in brackets are my additions, + giving alternate/earlier published titles for the poems.</li> +<li><i><a href="#preface">Preface</a>.</i>  In the printed source, the + Preface is placed before the Contents, but I have moved it for hypertext + navigation purposes.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p001">Waiting for the May</a>.</i>  This poem was + published under the title of "Summer Longings" in <i>The Bell-Founder and + Other Poems,</i> 1857.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p023">Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird</a>.</i>  This poem + was published under the title of "Home Preference" in <i>The Bell-Founder and + Other Poems,</i> 1857.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p039">Ferdiah</a>.</i>  The ballad between Mave and + Ferdiah includes some long lines of text that would require (due to electronic + publishing line length standards) occasionally breaking a line ending to make + a new line.  Because there is an internal rhyme in these verses, and for + more consistent formatting, I have decided to break every verse here at the + internal rhyme, but not capitalizing the beginning of resultant new + line.  For example, "Which many an arm less brave than thine, which many + a heart less bold, would claim?" is one line of verse in the 1882 edition, but + I have formatted it as "Which many an arm less brave than thine, / which many + a heart less bold, would claim?"  For purposes of recording + <a href="#errata-2004">errata</a> below, I have not numbered these new + pseudo-lines.  The phrase "son of Dáman, Daré's son" appears in + the poem a few times, but with inconsistently applied accents.  As the + inconsistency is the same in the 1884 edition, and I do not know if there is a + poetic or Gaelic grammatical reason for the changing diacritical marks, I have + presented these just as they appear in the printed source.  The word + "creit" is taken directly from the Irish text untranslated—a roughly + equivalent English word is "frame."</li> +<li><i><a href="#p083">The Voyage of St. Brendan</a>.</i>  Note 56 refers + to a puffin (Anas leucopsis) or <i>girrinna.</i>  The bird, at least by + 2004 classification, is not a puffin but a barnacle goose (Branta leucopsis) + and I found one reference to its Irish name as <i>gé + ghiúrain.</i>  As these birds nest in remote areas of the arctic, + people were quite free to invent stories of their origins.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p169">The Dead Tribune</a>.</i>  The subject of this poem + is Daniel O'Connell (1775-1847), an Irish political leader and Minister of + Parliament.  In ill health, his doctor advised he go to a warmer climate; + he died en route to Rome for a pilgrimage.  The 1882 edition has the word + "knawing" which is an obsolete variant of "gnawing"; the latter appears in the + 1884 edition.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p171">A Mystery</a>.</i>  The spelling of "Istambol" is + intentional—the current "Istanbul" was not adopted until the twentieth + century.  The name probably derives from an old nickname for + Constantinople, but the complexity of this city's naming is beyond the + capacity of a footnote.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p174b">To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</a>.</i>  + MacCarthy's translation of Calderón's <i>The Two Lovers of Heaven: + Chrysanthus and Daria</i> has been released as Project Gutenberg e-text + #12173.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p176">To Ethna</a>.</i>  This poem was published under + the listing of "Dedicatory Sonnet" and dated 1850 in <i>The Bell-Founder and + Other Poems,</i> 1857.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p219">O'Connell</a>.</i>  See note a few lines up on "The + Dead Tribune."  My correction of the phrase "heaven's high fault" is not + based on any other published edition.  It is conjectural, based on the + illogicality of the phrase and MacCarthy's use of the phrase "heaven's high + vault" in his translation of Calderón's <i>The Purgatory of St. + Patrick</i> (Project Gutenberg e-text #6371) published two years before this + poem was written.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p229">Moore</a>.</i>  The subject of this poem is Thomas + Moore (1779-1852).  A collection of his poems has been released as + Project Gutenberg e-text #8187, but note that the biographical sketch therein + mistakenly lists 1780 as his birth year.  In this poem "Shakspere" is not + misspelt; it is one of many variants used during and after the bard's lifetime + (my favorite is "Shaxpere" from 1582).</li> +<li><i><a href="#p245">To Ethna</a>.</i>  This poem bears the same title + as a sonnet that also appears in this collection of poems.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p262">Spring Flowers from Ireland</a>.</i>  I retained + the format of the name "Gäeta" as originally printed, even though the + rules for placing a diaeresis imply that it should be "Gaëta."</li> +<li><i><a href="#p281">The Irish Emigrant's Mother</a>.</i>  This poem was + published under the title of "The Emigrants" in <i>The Bell-Founder and Other + Poems,</i> 1857.</li> +</ul> +<center> +<p><a name="errata-2004" id="errata-2004"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<h3>Errata.</h3> +</center> +<p>Printer's errors found in the 1882 edition have been corrected in this + electronic edition.  While I have no desire to standardize Mr. + MacCarthy's spelling or curtail his poetic license, in some cases where I + could not find a documented variant matching the printed source I have + replaced it and listed the change here.  Occasionally I have inserted + punctuation where it is obviously missing.  Naturally it is possible that + some of these "corrections" are themselves erroneous.  When in doubt + about either a spelling or punctuation error, I have followed the text of the + original.  The list below does not include minor corrections (punctuation + and capitalization) in notes or introductions.</p> +<p>The [original text is in brackets] and {corrected text is in braces} + below.</p> +<ul> +<li><i><a href="#contents">Contents</a>.</i>  [Táin Bó Chuailgne] + {Tain Bó Cuailgné} / [The Year King] {The Year-King} / + [The Awakening] {The Awaking} / [The Voice and the Pen] + {The Voice and Pen}</li> +<li><i><a href="#preface">Preface</a>.</i>  first paragraph + [Táin Bó Chuailgne] {Tain Bó Cuailgné}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p001">Waiting for the May</a>.</i>  line 9 [longing] + {longing,}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p005">Kate of Kenmare</a>.</i>  line 37 [and] {land}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p007">A Lament</a>.</i>  line 117 [strewn] {strown}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p023">Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird</a>.</i>  line 35 + [home] {home,}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p026">The Fireside</a>.</i>  line 20 [fireside.] + {fireside!}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p035">Autumn Fears</a>.</i>  line 40 [field] {field!} / +line 48 [field] {field!}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p039">Ferdiah</a>.</i>  line 69 [birds sing] {bird sings} / +line 590 [ogether] {Together} / +line 1007 [gle] {glen} / +line 1176 [Tain Bó Cuailgné] {<i>Tain Bó Cuailgné</i>} / +line 1229 [be.'] {be."}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p083">The Voyage of St. Brendan</a>.</i>  note 64 + [tanagar] {tanager} / +note 65 [driole] {oriole}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p106">The Foray of Con O'Donnell</a>.</i>  line 347 + [and come] {and some} / +line 407 [seagull] {sea gull}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p124">The Bell-Founder</a>.</i>  +subheader [Vicissitude and Rest.] {Part III.—Vicissitude and Rest.}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p140">Alice and Una</a>.</i>  line 77 [Glengarifl's] + {Glengariff's} / +note 100 [Digialis] {Digitalis}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p164">The Voice and Pen</a>.</i>  line 35 [orator s] + {orator's}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p177">The Arraying</a>.</i>  line 59 [verduous] + {verdurous}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p183">Welcome, May</a>.</i>  line 30 [footseps] + {footsteps}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p193">The Progress of the Rose</a>.</i>  line 65 + [beateous] {beauteous}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p205">The Year-King</a>.</i>  line 114 [iu] {in}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p211">The Awaking</a>.</i>  line 11 [fear] {fear,} / +line 29 [known] {known:}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p214">The First of the Angels</a>.</i>  line 32 + [grass-bearing; lea] {grass-bearing lea}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p216">Spirit Voices</a>.</i>  title [VOICES] {VOICES.} / +line 78 [prodnce] {produce}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p219">O'Connell</a>.</i>  line 123 [fault] {vault} / +line 283 [it] {its}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p229">Moore</a>.</i>  line 101 [countr y] {country}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p246">"Not Known"</a>.</i>  line 39 [Not] {NOT} / +line 48 [Estìo] {Estío}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p248">The Lay Missioner</a>.</i>  line 20 [tis] + {'tis}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p256">Recollections</a>.</i>  line 94 [hundreth] + {hundredth}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p262">Spring Flowers from Ireland</a>.</i>  +line 96 [own] {own.}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p270">The Birth of the Spring</a>.</i>  line 21 [When] + {when} / +line 29 [nowledge] {knowledge}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p275">Darrynane</a>.</i>  line 30 [Lowne?] + {Lowne—} / line 52 [main] {main?}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p281">The Irish Emigrant's Mother</a>.</i>  line 10 [Tis] + {'Tis}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p286">The Rain: a Song of Peace</a>.</i>  line 32 [again] + {again!}</li> +</ul> +<hr /> + +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12622 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..24a776d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #12622 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12622) diff --git a/old/12622-h.zip b/old/12622-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b489869 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/12622-h.zip diff --git a/old/12622-h/12622-h.htm b/old/12622-h/12622-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8e4fe07 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/12622-h/12622-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11934 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= +"text/html; charset=us-ascii" /> +<title>Poems, by Denis Florence MacCarthy</title> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Denis Florence MacCarthy + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems + +Author: Denis Florence MacCarthy + +Release Date: June 15, 2004 [EBook #12622] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Dennis McCarthy + + + + + +</pre> + + +<hr /> +<center> +<h1>POEMS</h1> +<h5>BY</h5> +<h2>DENIS FLORENCE MAC CARTHY</h2> +<hr width="25%" /> +<h3>DUBLIN</h3> +<h4>M. H. GILL AND SON,</h4> +<h5>50 UPPER SACKVILLE STREET</h5> +<h4>1882</h4> +<hr width="50%" /> +<h6>M. H. GILL AND SON, PRINTERS, DUBLIN</h6> +<hr width="50%" /> +<h2>Memorial to Denis Florence MacCarthy.</h2> +</center> +<p>A Committee of friends and admirers of the late Denis Florence +MacCarthy has been formed for the purpose of perpetuating +in a fitting manner the memory of this distinguished Irish +poet.  Among the contributors to the Memorial Fund are +Cardinal Newman, Cardinal MacCabe, Cardinal MacClosky; +Most Rev. Dr. M'Gettigan, Most Rev. Dr. Croke, Most Rev. +Dr. Butler, and many of the Irish Clergy; Lord O'Hagan, the +Marquis of Ripon, Archbishop Trench, Judge O'Hagan, Sir. C. +G. Duffy, Aubrey de Vere, Sir Samuel Ferguson, and Dr. J. +K. Ingram.</p> +<p>Subscriptions will be received by the Lord Mayor, Mansion +House, Dublin; by Dr. James Brady, 38 Harcourt-st; Mr. W. +L. Joynt, D. L., 43 Merrion-square; Rev. C. P. Meehan, SS. +Michael and John's; or by any Member of the Committee.</p> +<p><a name="contents" id="contents"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> +</center> +<hr width="20%" /> +<ul> +<li><a href="#preface">Preface</a></li> +</ul> +<center> +<h3>B<font size="-1">ALLADS AND</font> L<font size="-1">YRICS</font>.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><a href="#p001">Waiting for the May</a> +   <font size="-1">[<i>Summer Longings</i>]</font></li> +<li><a href="#p002">Devotion</a></li> +<li><a href="#p004">The Seasons of the Heart</a></li> +<li><a href="#p005">Kate of Kenmare</a></li> +<li><a href="#p007">A Lament</a></li> +<li><a href="#p011">The Bridal of the Year</a></li> +<li><a href="#p017">The Vale of Shanganah</a></li> +<li><a href="#p019">The Pillar Towers of Ireland</a></li> +<li><a href="#p021">Over the Sea</a></li> +<li><a href="#p023">Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird</a> +   <font size="-1">[<i>Home Preference</i>]</font></li> +<li><a href="#p025">Love's Language</a></li> +<li><a href="#p026">The Fireside</a></li> +<li><a href="#p028">The Banished Spirit's Song</a></li> +<li><a href="#p029">Remembrance</a></li> +<li><a href="#p030">The Clan of MacCaura</a></li> +<li><a href="#p034">The Window</a></li> +<li><a href="#p035">Autumn Fears</a></li> +<li><a href="#p036">Fatal Gifts</a></li> +<li><a href="#p037">Sweet May</a></li> +<li><a href="#p039">F<font size="-2">ERDIAH:</font> an Episode from the + <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné</i></a></li> +<li><a href="#p083">T<font size="-2">HE</font> V<font size="-2">OYAGE OF</font> + S<font size="-2">T.</font> B<font size="-2">RENDAN</font></a></li> +<li><a href="#p106">T<font size="-2">HE</font> F<font size="-2">ORAY OF</font> + C<font size="-2">ON</font> O'D<font size="-2">ONNELL</font></a></li> +<li><a href="#p124">T<font size="-2">HE</font> + B<font size="-2">ELL-</font>F<font size="-2">OUNDER</font></a></li> +<li><a href="#p140">A<font size="-2">LICE AND</font> + U<font size="-2">NA</font></a></li> +</ul> +<center> +<h3>N<font size="-1">ATIONAL</font> P<font size="-1">OEMS AND</font> + S<font size="-1">ONGS</font>.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><a href="#p154">Advance!</a></li> +<li><a href="#p157">Remonstrance</a></li> +<li><a href="#p159">Ireland's Vow</a></li> +<li><a href="#p160">A Dream</a></li> +<li><a href="#p162">The Price of Freedom</a></li> +<li><a href="#p164">The Voice and Pen</a></li> +<li><a href="#p165">"Cease to do Evil—Learn to do Well"</a></li> +<li><a href="#p167">The Living Land</a></li> +<li><a href="#p169">The Dead Tribune</a></li> +<li><a href="#p171">A Mystery</a></li> +</ul> +<center> +<h3>S<font size="-1">ONNETS</font>.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><a href="#p174a">"The History of Dublin"</a></li> +<li><a href="#p174b">To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</a></li> +<li><a href="#p175">To Kenelm Henry Digby</a></li> +<li><a href="#p176">To Ethna</a> +   <font size="-1">[<i>Dedicatory Sonnet</i>]</font></li> +</ul> +<center> +<h3>U<font size="-1">NDERGLIMPSES</font>.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><a href="#p177">The Arraying</a></li> +<li><a href="#p180">The Search</a></li> +<li><a href="#p181">The Tidings</a></li> +<li><a href="#p183">Welcome, May</a></li> +<li><a href="#p185">The Meeting of the Flowers</a></li> +<li><a href="#p193">The Progress of the Rose</a></li> +<li><a href="#p200">The Bath of the Streams</a></li> +<li><a href="#p203">The Flowers of the Tropics</a></li> +<li><a href="#p205">The Year-King</a></li> +<li><a href="#p211">The Awaking</a></li> +<li><a href="#p213">The Resurrection</a></li> +<li><a href="#p214">The First of the Angels</a></li> +<li><a href="#p216">Spirit Voices</a></li> +</ul> +<center> +<h3>C<font size="-1">ENTENARY</font> O<font size="-1">DES</font>.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><a href="#p219">O'Connell (August 6th, 1875)</a></li> +<li><a href="#p229">Moore (May 28th, 1879)</a></li> +</ul> +<center> +<h3>M<font size="-1">ISCELLANEOUS</font> P<font size="-1">OEMS</font>.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><a href="#p239">The Spirit of the Snow</a></li> +<li><a href="#p243">To the Bay of Dublin</a></li> +<li><a href="#p245">To Ethna</a></li> +<li><a href="#p246">"Not Known"</a></li> +<li><a href="#p248">The Lay Missioner</a></li> +<li><a href="#p251">The Spirit of the Ideal</a></li> +<li><a href="#p256">Recollections</a></li> +<li><a href="#p260a">Dolores</a></li> +<li><a href="#p260b">Lost and Found</a></li> +<li><a href="#p262">Spring Flowers from Ireland</a></li> +<li><a href="#p265">To the Memory of Father Prout</a></li> +<li><a href="#p266">Those Shandon Bells</a></li> +<li><a href="#p267a">Youth and Age</a></li> +<li><a href="#p267b">To June</a></li> +<li><a href="#p269">Sunny Days in Winter</a></li> +<li><a href="#p270">The Birth of the Spring</a></li> +<li><a href="#p272">All Fool's Day</a></li> +<li><a href="#p275">Darrynane</a></li> +<li><a href="#p277">A Shamrock from the Irish Shore</a></li> +<li><a href="#p280">Italian Myrtles</a></li> +<li><a href="#p281">The Irish Emigrant's Mother</a> +   <font size="-1">[<i>The Emigrants</i>]</font></li> +<li><a href="#p286">The Rain: a Song of Peace</a></li> +</ul> +<hr width="10%" /> +<ul> +<li>[<a href="#note-2004">Transcriber's Notes</a>]</li> +<li>[<a href="#errata-2004">Errata</a>]</li> +</ul> +<p><a name="preface" id="preface"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2>PREFACE.</h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +</center> +<p>This volume contains, besides the poems published +in 1850 and 1857,<sup>1</sup> the odes written for the +centenary celebrations in honour of O'Connell in +1875, and of Moore in 1879.  To these are added +several sonnets and miscellaneous poems now first +collected, and the episode of "Ferdiah" translated +from the <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné.</i></p> +<p>Born in Dublin,<sup>2</sup> May 26th, 1817, my father, +while still very young, showed a decided taste for +literature.  The course of his boyish reading +is indicated in his "Lament."  Some verses from +his pen, headed "My Wishes," appeared in the +<i>Dublin Satirist,</i> April 12th, 1834.  This was, as +far as I can discover, the earliest of his writings +published.  To the journal just mentioned he +frequently contributed, both in prose and verse, +during the next two years.  The following are +some of the titles:—"The Greenwood Hill;" +"Songs of other Days" (Belshazzar's Feast—Thoughts +in the Holy Land—Thoughts of the +Past); "Life," "Death," "Fables" (The +Zephyr and the Sensitive Plant—The Tulip and +the Rose—The Bee and the Rose); "Songs of +Birds" (Nightingale—Eagle—Phœnix—Fire-fly); +"Songs of the Winds," &c.</p> +<p>On October 14th, 1843, his first contribution +("Proclamation Songs," No. 1) appeared in the +Dublin <i>Nation.</i>  "Here is a song by a new +recruit," wrote Mr., now Sir, Charles Gavan +Duffy, "which we should give in our leading +columns if they were not preoccupied."  In the +next number I find "The Battle of Clontarf," +with this editorial note: "'Desmond' is entitled +to be enrolled in our national brigade."  "A +Dream" soon follows; and at intervals, between +this date and 1849—besides many other poems—all +the National songs and most of the Ballads +included in this volume.  In April, 1847, "The +Bell-Founder" and "The Foray of Con O'Donnell" +appeared in the <i>University Magazine,</i> in which +"Waiting for the May," "The Bridal of the +Year," and "The Voyage of Saint Brendan," +were subsequently published (in January and +May, 1848).  Meanwhile, in 1846, the year in +which he was called to the bar, he edited the +"Poets and Dramatists of Ireland," with an +introduction, which evinced considerable reading, +on the early religion and literature of the Irish +people.  In the same year he also edited the +"Book of Irish Ballads," to which he prefixed an +introduction on ballad poetry.  This volume was +republished with additions and a preface in 1869.  +In 1853, the poems afterwards published under the +title of "Underglimpses" were chiefly written.<sup>3</sup></p> +<p>The plays of Calderon—thoroughly national in +form and matter—have met with but scant appreciation +from foreigners.  Yet we find his +genius recognized in unexpected quarters, Goethe +and Shelley uniting with Augustus Schlegel and +Archbishop Trench to pay him homage.  My +father was, I think, first led to the study of +Calderon by Shelley's glowing eulogy of the poet +("Essays," vol. ii., p. 274, and elsewhere).  The +first of his translations was published in 1853, the +last twenty years later.  They consist<sup>4</sup> of fifteen +complete plays, which I believe to be the largest +amount of translated verse by any one author, +that has ever appeared in English.  Most of it +is in the difficult assonant or vowel rhyme, hardly +ever previously attempted in our language.  This +may be a fitting place to cite a few testimonies as +to the execution of the work.  Longfellow, whom +I have myself heard speak of the "Autos" in a +way that showed how deeply he had studied them +in the original, wrote, in 1857: "You are doing +this work admirably, and seem to gain new +strength and sweetness as you go on.  It seems as +if Calderon himself were behind you whispering +and suggesting.  And what better work could you +do in your bright hours or in your dark hours +that just this, which seems to have been put providentially +into your hands."  Again, in 1862: +"Your new work in the vast and flowery fields of +Calderon is, I think, admirable, and presents the +old Spanish dramatist before the English reader +in a very attractive light.  Particularly in the +most poetical passages you are excellent; as, for +instance, in the fine description of the gerfalcon +and the heron in 'El Mayor Encanto.'  I hope +you mean to add more and more, so as to make +the translation as nearly complete as a single life +will permit.  It seems rather appalling to undertake +the whole of so voluminous a writer; nevertheless, +I hope you will do it.  Having proved +that you can, perhaps you ought to do it.  This +may be your appointed work.  It is a noble one."<sup>5</sup>  +Ticknor ("History of Spanish Literature," new +edition, vol. iii. p. 461) writes thus: "Calderon +is a poet who, whenever he is translated, should +have his very excesses and extravagances, both in +thought and manner, fully reproduced, in order to +give a faithful idea of what is grandest and most +distinctive in his genius.  Mr. MacCarthy has +done this, I conceive, to a degree which I had +previously supposed impossible.  Nothing, I think, +in the English language will give us so true an +impression of what is most characteristic of the +Spanish drama; perhaps I ought to say, of what is +most characteristic of Spanish poetry generally."</p> +<p>Another eminent Hispaniologist (Mr. C. F. Bradford, +of Boston) has spoken of the work in similar +terms.  His labours did not pass without recognition +from the great dramatist's countrymen.  He +was elected a member of the Real Academia some +years ago, and in 1881 this learned body presented +him with the medal struck in commemoration of +Calderon's bicentenary, "in token of their gratitude +and their appreciation of his translations of +the great poet's works."</p> +<p>In 1855, at the request of the Marchioness of +Donegal, my father wrote the ode which was recited +at the inauguration of the statue of her son, +the Earl of Belfast.  About the same time, his +Lectures on Poetry were delivered at the Catholic +University at the desire of Cardinal Newman.  +The Lectures on the Poets of Spain, and on the +Dramatists of the Sixteenth Century, were delivered +a few years later.  In 1862 he published a +curious bibliographical treatise on the "Mémoires +of the Marquis de Villars."  In 1864 the ill-health +of some of his family his leaving +his home near Killiney Hill<sup>6</sup> to reside on +the Continent.  In 1872, "Shelley's Early Life" +was published in London, where he had settled, +attracted by the facilities for research which its +great libraries offered.  This biography gives an +amusing account of the young poet's visit to +Dublin in 1812, and some new details of his +adventures and writings at this period.  My father's +admiration for Shelley was of long standing.  At the +age of seventeen he wrote some lines to the poet's +memory, which appeared in the <i>Dublin Satirist</i> +already mentioned, and an elaborate review of his +poetry in an early number of the <i>Nation.</i>  I have +before alluded to Shelley's influence in directing +his attention to Calderon.  The centenary odes in +honour of O'Connell and Moore were written, in +1875 and 1879, at the request of the committees +which had charge of these celebrations.  He +returned to Ireland a few months before his death, +which took place at Blackrock, near Dublin, on +April 7th,<sup>7</sup> in the present year.  His nature +was most sensitive, but though it was his lot to +suffer many sorrows, I never heard a complaint or +and unkind word from his lips.</p> +<p>From what has been said it will be evident that +this volume contains only a part of his poetical +works, it having been found impossible to include +the humorous pieces, parodies, and epigrams, +without some acquaintance with which an imperfect +idea would be formed of his genius.  +The same may be said of his numerous translations +from various languages (exclusive of +Calderon's plays).  Of those published in 1850, +"The Romance of Maleca," "Saint George's +Knight," "The Christmas of the Foreign Child," +and others have been frequently reprinted.  He +has since rendered from the Spanish poems by +Juan de Pedraza, Antonio de Trueba, Garcilaso +de la Vega, Gongora and "Fernan Caballero," +whom he visited when in Spain shortly before her +death, and whose prose story, "The Two Muleteers," +he has also translated.  To these must +be added, besides several shorter ballads from +Duran's Romancero General, "The Poem of the +Cid," "The Romance of Gayferos," and "The +Infanta of France."  The last is a metrical tale +of the fourteenth or fifteenth century, presenting +analogies with the "Thousand and One +Nights," and probably drawn from an Oriental +source.  His translations from the Latin, chiefly +of mediæval hymns, are also numerous.</p> +<p>In inserting the poem of "Ferdiah" I was +influenced by its subject as well as by the wish of +friends.  A few extracts appeared in a magazine +several years ago, and it was afterwards completed +without any view to publication.  It +follows the present Irish text<sup>8</sup> as closely as the +laws of metre will allow.  Since these pages were +in the printer's hands Mr. Aubrey de Vere has +given to the world his treatment of the same +theme,<sup>9</sup> adorning as usual all that he touches.  +As he well says: "It is not in the form of translation +that an ancient Irish tale of any considerable +length admits of being rendered in poetry.  +What is needed is to select from the original such +portions as are at once the most essential to the +story, and the most characteristic, reproducing +them in a condensed form, and taking care that +the necessary additions bring out the idea, and +contain nothing that is not in the spirit of the +original."  (Preface, p. vii.)  The "Tale of Troy +Divine" owes its form, and we may never know +how much of its tenderness and grace, to its +Alexandrian editor.  However, the present version +may, from its very literalness, have and interest +for some readers.</p> +<p>Many of the earlier poems here collected have +been admirably rendered into French by the late +M. Ernest de Chatelain.<sup>10</sup>  The Moore Centenary +Ode has been translated into Latin by the Rev. +M. J. Blacker, M. A.</p> +<p>My thanks are due to the Rev. Matthew Russell, +S. J., for his kind assistance in preparing this book +for the press, and to the Publishers for the accuracy +and speed with which it has been produced.</p> +<p>I cannot let pass this opportunity of expressing +my gratitude for the self-sacrificing labours of +the committee formed at the suggestion of Mr. +William Lane Joynt, D. L., to honour my father's +memory, and for the generous response his friends +have made to their appeal.<sup>11</sup></p> +<center> +<h3>JOHN MAC CARTHY</h3> +</center> +<p><font size="-1"><i>Blackrock, Dublin, August,</i> 1882.</font></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<p><sup>1</sup> "Ballads, Poems, and Lyrics, Original and Translated:"  +Dublin, 1850.  "The Bell-Founder, and other Poems," +"Underglimpses, and other Poems:" London, 1857.  A few pieces +which seemed not to be of abiding interest have been omitted.</p> +<p><sup>2</sup> At 24 Lower Sackville-street.  +The house, with others adjoining, was pulled down several years ago.  +Their site is now occupied by the Imperial Hotel.</p> +<p><sup>3</sup> The subjective view of nature developed in these Poems +has been censured as remote from human interest.  Yet a critic +of deep insight, George Gilfillan, declares his special admiration +for "the joyous, sunny, lark-like carols on May, almost +worthy of Shelley, and such delicate, tender, Moore-like +<i>trifles</i> (shall I call them?) as <i>All Fool's Day.</i>  + The whole" he +adds, "is full of a beautiful poetic spirit, and rich resources +both of fancy and language."  I may be permitted to transcribe +here an extract from some unpublished comments by +Sir William Rowan Hamilton on another poem of the same +class.  His remarks are interesting in themselves, as coming +from one illustrious as a man of science, and, at the same +time, a true poet—a combination which may hereafter become +more frequent, since already in the vast regions of space and +time brought within human ken, imagination strives hard to +keep pace with established fact.  In a manuscript volume +now in the Library of Trinity College, Dublin, he writes, +under date, May, 1848:—</p> +<p>"<i>The University Magazine</i> for the present month contains +a poem which delights one, entitled 'The Bridal of the Year.'  +It is signed 'D. F. M. C.,' as is also a shorter, but almost a +sweeter piece immediately following it, and headed, 'Summer +Longings.'"</p> +<p>Sir William goes through the whole poem, copying and +criticising every stanza, and concludes as follows:—</p> +<p>"After a very pretty ninth stanza respecting the 'fairy +phantoms' in the poet's 'glorious visions seen,' which the +author conceives to 'follow the poet's steps beneath the +morning's beam,' he burst into rapture at the approach of the +Bride herself—</p> +<pre> + "'Bright as are the planets seven-- + with her glances + She advances, + For her azure eyes are Heaven! + And her robes are sunbeams woven, + And her beauteous bridesmaids are + Hopes and wishes-- + Dreams delicious-- + Joys from some serener star, + And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar!' +</pre> +<p>"Her eyes <i>are</i> heaven, her robes <i>are</i> sunbeams, and with +these physical aspects of the May, how well does the author +of this ode (for such, surely, we may term the poem, so rich in +lyrical enthusiasm and varied melody) conceive the combination +as bridesmaids, as companions to the bride; of those +mental feelings, those new buddings of hope in the heart which +the season is fitted to awaken.  The azure eyes glitter back +to ours, for the planets shine upon us from the lovely summer +night; but lovelier still are those 'dreams delicious, joys from +some serener star,' which at the same sweet season float down +invisibly, and win their entrance to our souls.  The image of +a bridal is happily and naturally kept before us in the remaining +stanzas of this poem, which well deserve to be copied +here, in continuation of these notes—the former for its cheerfulness, +the latter for its sweetness.  I wish that I knew the +author, or even that I were acquainted with his name.—Since +ascertained to be D. F. MacCarthy."</p> +<p><sup>4</sup> The following are the titles and dates of publication:  +In 1853, "The Constant Prince," "The Secret in Words," +"The Physician of his own Honour," "Love after Death," +"The Purgatory of St. Patrick," "The Scarf and the +Flower."  In 1861, "The Greatest Enchantment," "The +Sorceries of Sin," "Devotion of the Cross."  In 1867, "Belshazzar's +Feast," "The Divine Philothea" (with Essays from +the German of Lorinser, and the Spanish of Gonzales Pedroso).  +In 1870, "Chrysanthus and Daria, the Two Lovers of +Heaven."  In 1873, "The Wonder-working Magician," "Life +is a Dream," "The Purgatory of St. Patrick" (a new translation +entirely in the assonant metre).  Introductions and +notes are added to all these plays.  Another, "Daybreak in +Copacabana," was finished a few months before his death, and +has not been published.</p> +<p><sup>5</sup> When the author of "Evangeline" visited Europe for the +last time in 1869, they met in Italy.  The + <a href="#p174b">sonnets at p. 174</a> +refer to this occasion.</p> +<p><sup>6</sup> The "Campo de Estio," described in the lines "Not Known."</p> +<p><sup>7</sup> A fortnight after that of Longfellow.  His attached +friend and early associate, Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, perished +by assassination at Ottawa on the same day and month +fourteen years ago.</p> +<p><sup>8</sup> Edited by his friend Br. W. K. Sullivan, President of +Queen's College, Cork, who, I may add, has in preparation a +paper on the "Voyage of St. Brendan," and on other ancient +Irish accounts of voyages, of which he finds an explanation in +Keltic mythology.  The paper will appear in the Transactions +of the American Geographical Society.</p> +<p><sup>9</sup> "The Combat at the Ford" being Fragment III. of his +"Legends of Ireland's Heroic Age."  London, 1882.</p> +<p><sup>10</sup> In his <i>"Beautés de la Poesie Anglaise, +Rayons et Reflets,"</i> &c.</p> +<p><sup>11</sup> The first meeting was held on April 15th, at the Mansion +House, Dublin, under the presidency of the Lord Mayor, +the Right Hon. Charles Dawson, M. P.</p> +<p><a name="p001" id="p001"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2><i>Poems.</i></h2> +<hr width="50%" /> +<h2>BALLADS AND LYRICS.</h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +<h3>WAITING FOR THE MAY.</h3> +</center> +<pre> + Ah! my heart is weary waiting, + Waiting for the May-- +Waiting for the pleasant rambles, +Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, + With the woodbine alternating, + Scent the dewy way. + Ah! my heart is weary waiting, + Waiting for the May. + + Ah! my heart is sick with longing, + Longing for the May-- +Longing to escape from study, +To the young face fair and ruddy, + And the thousand charms belonging + To the summer's day. + Ah! my heart is sick with longing, + Longing for the May. + + Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, + Sighing for the May-- +Sighing for their sure returning, +When the summer beams are burning, + Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, + All the winter lay. + Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, + Sighing for the May. + + Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing, + Throbbing for the May-- +Throbbing for the sea-side billows, +Or the water-wooing willows, + Where in laughing and in sobbing + Glide the streams away. + Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing, + Throbbing for the May. + + Waiting sad, dejected, weary, + Waiting for the May. +Spring goes by with wasted warnings, +Moon-lit evenings, sun-bright mornings; + Summer comes, yet dark and dreary + Life still ebbs away: + Man is ever weary, weary, + Waiting for the May! +</pre> +<p><a name="p002" id="p002"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>DEVOTION.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +When I wander by the ocean, +When I view its wild commotion, +Then the spirit of devotion + Cometh near; +And it fills my brain and bosom, + Like a fear! + +I fear its booming thunder, +Its terror and its wonder, +Its icy waves, that sunder + Heart from heart; +And the white host that lies under + Makes me start. + +Its clashing and its clangour +Proclaim the Godhead's anger-- +I shudder, and with langour + Turn away; +No joyance fills my bosom + For that day. + +When I wander through the valleys, +When the evening zephyr dallies, +And the light expiring rallies + In the stream, +That spirit comes and glads me, + Like a dream. + +The blue smoke upward curling, +The silver streamlet purling, +The meadow wildflowers furling + Their leaflets to repose: +All woo me from the world + And its woes. + +The evening bell that bringeth +A truce to toil outringeth, +No sweetest bird that singeth + Half so sweet, +Not even the lark that springeth + From my feet. + +Then see I God beside me, +The sheltering trees that hide me, +The mountains that divide me + From the sea: +All prove how kind a Father + He can be. + +Beneath the sweet moon shining +The cattle are reclining, +No murmur of repining + Soundeth sad: +All feel the present Godhead, + And are glad. + +With mute, unvoiced confessings, +To the Giver of all blessings +I kneel, and with caressings + Press the sod, +And thank my Lord and Father, + And my God. +</pre> +<p><a name="p004" id="p004"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE SEASONS OF THE HEART.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The different hues that deck the earth +All in our bosoms have their birth; +'Tis not in the blue or sunny skies, +'Tis in the heart the summer lies! +The earth is bright if that be glad, +Dark is the earth if that be sad: +And thus I feel each weary day-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +In vain, upon her emerald car, +Comes Spring, "the maiden from afar," +And scatters o'er the woods and fields +The liberal gifts that nature yields; +In vain the buds begin to grow, +In vain the crocus gilds the snow; +I feel no joy though earth be gay-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +And when the Autumn crowns the year, +And ripened hangs the golden ear, +And luscious fruits of ruddy hue +The bending boughs are glancing through, +When yellow leaves from sheltered nooks +Come forth and try the mountain brooks, +Even then I feel, as there I stray-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +And when the winter comes at length, +With swaggering gait and giant strength, +And with his strong arms in a trice +Binds up the streams in chains of ice, +What need I sigh for pleasures gone, +The twilight eve, the rosy dawn? +My heart is changed as much as they-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +Even now, when Summer lends the scene +Its brightest gold, its purest green, +Whene'er I climb the mountain's breast, +With softest moss and heath-flowers dress'd, +When now I hear the breeze that stirs +The golden bells that deck the furze, +Alas! unprized they pass away-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +But when thou comest back once more, +Though dark clouds hang and loud winds roar, +And mists obscure the nearest hills, +And dark and turbid roll the rills, +Such pleasures then my breast shall know, +That summer's sun shall round me glow; +Then through the gloom shall gleam the May-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! +</pre> +<p><a name="p005" id="p005"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>KATE OF KENMARE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Oh! many bright eyes full of goodness and gladness, + Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine, +And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadness, + Have I worshipped in silence and felt them divine! +But Hope in its gleamings, or Love in its dreamings, + Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair +As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,[12] + The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +It was all but a moment, her radiant existence, + Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me; +But time has not ages and earth has not distance + To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee! +Again am I straying where children are playing, + Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air, +Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee, + Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare! + +Thine arbutus beareth full many a cluster + Of white waxen blossoms like lilies in air; +But, oh! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre + No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear; +To that cheek softly flushing, thy lip brightly blushing, + Oh! what are the berries that bright tree doth bear? +Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty, + That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +O Beauty! some spell from kind Nature thou bearest, + Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye, +That hearts that are hardest, from forms that are fairest, + Receive such impressions as never can die! +The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy,[13] + Can stamp on the hard rock the shapes it doth wear; +Art cannot trace it, nor ages efface it: + And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +To him who far travels how sad is the feeling, + How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim, +When the scenes he most loves, like a river's soft stealing, + All fade as a vision and vanish from him! +Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that garland + That memory weaves of the bright and the fair; +While this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreathing, + And the rose of that garland is Kate of Kenmare! + +In lonely Lough Quinlan in summer's soft hours, + Fair islands are floating that move with the tide, +Which, sterile at first, are soon covered with flowers, + And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like glide. +Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awakened, + And the heart bears a harvest that late was so bare, +Of him who in roving finds objects of loving, + Like the fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +Sweet Kate of Kenmare! though I ne'er may behold thee, + Though the pride and the joy of another thou be, +Though strange lips may praise thee, and strange arms enfold thee, + A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on thee! +One feeling I cherish that never can perish-- + One talisman proof to the dark wizard care-- +The fervent and dutiful love of the Beautiful, + Of which thou art a type, gentle Kate of Kenmare! +</pre> +<p><sup>12</sup> The river of Kenmare.</p> +<p><sup>13</sup> Near the town is the "Fairy Rock," on which the marks + of several feet are deeply impressed.  It derives its name from + the popular belief that these are the work of fairies.</p> +<p><a name="p007" id="p007"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>A LAMENT.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The dream is over, +The vision has flown; +Dead leaves are lying +Where roses have blown; +Wither'd and strown +Are the hopes I cherished,-- +All hath perished +But grief alone. + +My heart was a garden +Where fresh leaves grew +Flowers there were many, +And weeds a few; +Cold winds blew, +And the frosts came thither, +For flowers will wither, +And weeds renew! + +Youth's bright palace +Is overthrown, +With its diamond sceptre +And golden throne; +As a time-worn stone +Its turrets are humbled,-- +All hath crumbled +But grief alone! + +Wither, oh, whither, +Have fled away +The dreams and hopes +Of my early day? +Ruined and gray +Are the towers I builded; +And the beams that gilded-- +Ah! where are they? + +Once this world +Was fresh and bright, +With its golden noon +And its starry night; +Glad and light, +By mountain and river, +Have I bless'd the Giver +With hushed delight. + +These were the days +Of story and song, +When Hope had a meaning +And Faith was strong. +"Life will be long, +And lit with Love's gleamings;" +Such were my dreamings, +But, ah, how wrong! + +Youth's illusions, +One by one, +Have passed like clouds +That the sun looked on. +While morning shone, +How purple their fringes! +How ashy their tinges +When that was gone! + +Darkness that cometh +Ere morn has fled-- +Boughs that wither +Ere fruits are shed-- +Death bells instead +Of a bridal's pealings-- +Such are my feelings, +Since Hope is dead! + +Sad is the knowledge +That cometh with years-- +Bitter the tree +That is watered with tears; +Truth appears, +With his wise predictions, +Then vanish the fictions +Of boyhood's years. + +As fire-flies fade +When the nights are damp-- +As meteors are quenched +In a stagnant swamp-- +Thus Charlemagne's camp, +Where the Paladins rally, +And the Diamond Valley, +And Wonderful Lamp, + +And all the wonders +Of Ganges and Nile, +And Haroun's rambles, +And Crusoe's isle, +And Princes who smile +On the Genii's daughters +'Neath the Orient waters +Full many a mile, + +And all that the pen +Of Fancy can write +Must vanish +In manhood's misty light-- +Squire and knight, +And damosels' glances, +Sunny romances +So pure and bright! + +These have vanished, +And what remains?-- +Life's budding garlands +Have turned to chains; +Its beams and rains +Feed but docks and thistles, +And sorrow whistles +O'er desert plains! + +The dove will fly +From a ruined nest, +Love will not dwell +In a troubled breast; +The heart has no zest +To sweeten life's dolour-- +If Love, the Consoler, +Be not its guest! + +The dream is over, +The vision has flown; +Dead leaves are lying +Where roses have blown; +Wither'd and strown +Are the hopes I cherished,-- +All hath perished +But grief alone! +</pre> +<p><a name="p011" id="p011"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE BRIDAL OF THE YEAR.</h3> +</center> +<pre> + Yes! the Summer is returning, + Warmer, brighter beams are burning + Golden mornings, purple evenings, + Come to glad the world once more. + Nature from her long sojourning + In the Winter-House of Mourning, + With the light of hope outpeeping, + From those eyes that late were weeping, + Cometh dancing o'er the waters + To our distant shore. + On the boughs the birds are singing, + Never idle, + For the bridal + Goes the frolic breeze a-ringing + All the green bells on the branches, + Which the soul of man doth hear; + Music-shaken, + It doth waken, + Half in hope, and half in fear, +And dons its festal garments for the Bridal of the Year! + + For the Year is sempiternal, + Never wintry, never vernal, + Still the same through all the changes + That our wondering eyes behold. + Spring is but his time of wooing-- + Summer but the sweet renewing + Of the vows he utters yearly, + Ever fondly and sincerely, + To the young bride that he weddeth, + When to heaven departs the old, + For it is her fate to perish, + Having brought him, + In the Autumn, + Children for his heart to cherish. + Summer, like a human mother, + Dies in bringing forth her young; + Sorrow blinds him, + Winter finds him + Childless, too, their graves among, +Till May returns once more, and the bridal hymns are sung. + + Thrice the great Betrothéd naming, + Thrice the mystic banns proclaiming, + February, March, and April, + Spread the tidings far and wide; + Thrice they questioned each new-comer, + "Know ye, why the sweet-faced Summer, + With her rich imperial dower, + Golden fruit and diamond flower, + And her pearly raindrop trinkets, + Should not be the green Earth's Bride?" + All things vocal spoke elated + (Nor the voiceless + Did rejoice less)-- + "Be the heavenly lovers mated!" + All the many murmuring voices + Of the music-breathing Spring, + Young birds twittering, + Streamlets glittering, + Insects on transparent wing-- +All hailed the Summer nuptials of their King! + + Now the rosy East gives warning, + 'Tis the wished-for nuptial morning. + Sweetest truant from Elysium, + Golden morning of the May! + All the guests are in their places-- + Lilies with pale, high-bred faces-- + Hawthorns in white wedding favours, + Scented with celestial savours-- + Daisies, like sweet country maidens, + Wear white scolloped frills to-day; + 'Neath her hat of straw the Peasant + Primrose sitteth, + Nor permitteth + Any of her kindred present, + Specially the milk-sweet cowslip, + E'er to leave the tranquil shade; + By the hedges, + Or the edges + Of some stream or grassy glade, +They look upon the scene half wistful, half afraid. + + Other guests, too, are invited, + From the alleys dimly lighted, + From the pestilential vapours + Of the over-peopled town-- + From the fever and the panic, + Comes the hard-worked, swarth mechanic-- + Comes the young wife pallor-stricken + At the cares that round her thicken-- + Comes the boy whose brow is wrinkled, + Ere his chin is clothed in down-- + And the foolish pleasure-seekers, + Nightly thinking + They are drinking + Life and joy from poisoned beakers, + Shudder at their midnight madness, + And the raving revel scorn: + All are treading + To the wedding + In the freshness of the morn, +And feel, perchance too late, the bliss of being born. + + And the Student leaves his poring, + And his venturous exploring + In the gold and gem-enfolding + Waters of the ancient lore-- + Seeking in its buried treasures, + Means for life's most common pleasures; + Neither vicious nor ambitious-- + Simple wants and simple wishes. + Ah! he finds the ancient learning + But the Spartan's iron ore; + Without value in an era + Far more golden + Than the olden-- + When the beautiful chimera, + Love, hath almost wholly faded + Even from the dreams of men. + From his prison + Newly risen-- + From his book-enchanted den-- +The stronger magic of the morning drives him forth again. + + And the Artist, too--the Gifted-- + He whose soul is heaven-ward lifted. + Till it drinketh inspiration + At the fountain of the skies; + He, within whose fond embraces + Start to life the marble graces; + Or, with God-like power presiding, + With the potent pencil gliding, + O'er the void chaotic canvas + Bids the fair creations rise! + And the quickened mass obeying + Heaves its mountains; + From its fountains + Sends the gentle streams a-straying + Through the vales, like Love's first feelings + Stealing o'er a maiden's heart; + The Creator-- + Imitator-- + From his easel forth doth start, +And from God's glorious Nature learns anew his Art! + + But who is this with tresses flowing, + Flashing eyes and forehead glowing, + From whose lips the thunder-music + Pealeth o'er the listening lands? + 'Tis the first and last of preachers-- + First and last of priestly teachers; + First and last of those appointed + In the ranks of the anointed; + With their songs like swords to sever + Tyranny and Falsehood's bands! + 'Tis the Poet--sum and total + Of the others, + With his brothers, + In his rich robes sacerdotal, + Singing with his golden psalter. + Comes he now to wed the twain-- + Truth and Beauty-- + Rest and Duty-- + Hope, and Fear, and Joy, and Pain, +Unite for weal or woe beneath the Poet's chain! + + And the shapes that follow after, + Some in tears and some in laughter, + Are they not the fairy phantoms + In his glorious vision seen? + Nymphs from shady forests wending, + Goddesses from heaven descending; + Three of Jove's divinest daughters, + Nine from Aganippe's waters; + And the passion-immolated, + Too fond-hearted Tyrian Queen, + Various shapes of one idea, + Memory-haunting, + Heart-enchanting, + Cythna, Genevieve, and Nea,[14] + Rosalind and all her sisters, + Born by Avon's sacred stream, + All the blooming + Shapes, illuming + The Eternal Pilgrim's dream,[15] +Follow the Poet's steps beneath the morning's beam. + + But the Bride--the Bride is coming! + Birds are singing, bees are humming; + Silent lakes amid the mountains + Look but cannot speak their mirth; + Streams go bounding in their gladness, + With a bacchanalian madness; + Trees bow down their heads in wonder, + Clouds of purple part asunder, + As the Maiden of the Morning + Leads the blushing Bride to Earth! + Bright as are the planets seven-- + With her glances + She advances, + For her azure eyes are Heaven! + And her robes are sunbeams woven, + And her beauteous bridesmaids are + Hopes and wishes-- + Dreams delicious-- + Joys from some serener star, +And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar. + + Now the mystic right is over-- + Blessings on the loved and lover! + Strike the tabours, clash the cymbals, + Let the notes of joy resound! + With the rosy apple-blossom, + Blushing like a maiden's bosom; + With all treasures from the meadows + Strew the consecrated ground; + Let the guests with vows fraternal + Pledge each other, + Sister, brother, + With the wine of Hope--the vernal + Vine-juice of Man's trustful heart: + Perseverance + And Forbearance, + Love and Labour, Song and Art, +Be this the cheerful creed wherewith the world may start. + + But whither the twain departed? + The United--the One-hearted-- + Whither from the bridal banquet + Have the Bride and Bridegroom flown? + Ah! their steps have led them quickly + Where the young leaves cluster thickly; + Blossomed boughs rain fragrance o'er them, + Greener grows the grass before them, + As they wander through the island, + Fond, delighted, and alone! + At their coming streams grow brighter, + Skies grow clearer, + Mountains nearer, + And the blue waves dancing lighter + From the far-off mighty ocean + Frolic on the glistening sand; + Jubilations, + Gratulations, + Breathe around, as hand-in-hand +They roam the Sutton's sea-washed shore, or soft Shanganah's strand. +</pre> +<p><sup>14</sup> Characters in Shelley, Coleridge, and Moore.</p> +<p><sup>15</sup> "The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame<br /> +      Over his living head, like Heaven, is bent,<br /> +      An early but enduring monument."<br /> +      Byron.      <i>(Shelley's + "Adonais.")</i></p> +<p><a name="p017" id="p017"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE VALE OF SHANGANAH.<sup>16</sup></h3> +</center> +<pre> +When I have knelt in the temple of Duty, +Worshipping honour and valour and beauty-- +When, like a brave man, in fearless resistance, +I have fought the good fight on the field of existence; +When a home I have won in the conflict of labour, +With truth for my armour and thought for my sabre, +Be that home a calm home where my old age may rally, +A home full of peace in this sweet pleasant valley! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna, + Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah! + +Fair is this isle--this dear child of the ocean-- +Nurtured with more than a mother's devotion; +For see! in what rich robes has nature arrayed her, +From the waves of the west to the cliffs of Ben Hader,[17] +By Glengariff's lone islets--Lough Lene's fairy water,[18] +So lovely was each, that then matchless I thought her; +But I feel, as I stray through each sweet-scented alley, +Less wild but more fair is this soft verdant valley! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + No wide-spreading prairie, no Indian savannah, + So dear to the eye as the Vale of Shanganah! + +How pleased, how delighted, the rapt eye reposes +On the picture of beauty this valley discloses, +From the margin of silver, whereon the blue water +Doth glance like the eyes of the ocean foam's daughter! +To where, with the red clouds of morning combining, +The tall "Golden Spears"[19] o'er the mountains are shining, +With the hue of their heather, as sunlight advances, +Like purple flags furled round the staffs of the lances! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + No lands far away by the swift Susquehannah, + So tranquil and fair as the Vale of Shanganah! + +But here, even here, the lone heart were benighted, +No beauty could reach it, if love did not light it; +'Tis this makes the earth, oh! what mortal could doubt it? +A garden with <i>it,</i> but a desert without it! +With the lov'd one, whose feelings instinctively teach her +That goodness of heart makes the beauty of feature. +How glad, through this vale, would I float down life's river, +Enjoying God's bounty, and blessing the Giver! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna, + Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah! +</pre> +<p><sup>16</sup> Lying to the south of Killiney-hill, near Dublin.</p> +<p><sup>17</sup> Hill of Howth.</p> +<p><sup>18</sup> Killarney.</p> +<p><sup>19</sup> The Sugarloaf Mountains, county Wicklow, were called + in Irish, "The Spears of Gold."</p> +<p><a name="p019" id="p019"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand +By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land; +In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime, +These gray old pillar temples, these conquerors of time! + +Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing and weak +The Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of the Greek, +And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires, +All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires! + +The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, +And the proud halls of the mighty and the calm homes of the just; +For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower, +Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower! + +But the grass grows again when in majesty and mirth, +On the wing of the spring, comes the Goddess of the Earth; +But for man in this world no springtide e'er returns +To the labours of his hands or the ashes of his urns! + +Two favourites hath Time--the pyramids of Nile, +And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle; +As the breeze o'er the seas, where the halcyon has its nest, +Thus Time o'er Egypt's tombs and the temples of the West! + +The names of their founders have vanished in the gloom, +Like the dry branch in the fire or the body in the tomb; +But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they cast-- +These temples of forgotten gods--these relics of the past! + +Around these walls have wandered the Briton and the Dane-- +The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of Spain-- +Phœnician and Milesian, and the plundering Norman Peers-- +And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of later years! + +How many different rites have these gray old temples known! +To the mind what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone! +What terror and what error, what gleams of love and truth, +Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth? + +Here blazed the sacred fire, and, when the sun was gone, +As a star from afar to the traveller it shone; +And the warm blood of the victim have these gray old temples drunk, +And the death-song of the druid and the matin of the monk. + +Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine, +And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine, +And the mitre shining brighter with its diamonds than the East, +And the crosier of the pontiff and the vestments of the priest. + +Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper bell, +Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's cell; +And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and good, +For the cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit stood. + +There may it stand for ever, while that symbol doth impart +To the mind one glorious vision, or one proud throb to the heart; +While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples last, +Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past! +</pre> +<p><a name="p021" id="p021"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>OVER THE SEA.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Sad eyes! why are ye steadfastly gazing + Over the sea? +Is it the flock of the ocean-shepherd grazing + Like lambs on the lea?-- +Is it the dawn on the orient billows blazing + Allureth ye? + +Sad heart! why art thou tremblingly beating-- + What troubleth thee? +There where the waves from the fathomless water come greeting, + Wild with their glee! +Or rush from the rocks, like a routed battalion retreating, + Over the sea! + +Sad feet! why are ye constantly straying + Down by the sea? +There, where the winds in the sandy harbour are playing + Child-like and free, +What is the charm, whose potent enchantment obeying, + There chaineth ye? + +O! sweet is the dawn, and bright are the colours it glows in, + Yet not to me! +To the beauty of God's bright creation my bosom is frozen! + Nought can I see, +Since she has departed--the dear one, the loved one, the chosen, + Over the sea! + +Pleasant it was when the billows did struggle and wrestle, + Pleasant to see! +Pleasant to climb the tall cliffs where the sea birds nestle, + When near to thee! +Nought can I now behold but the track of thy vessel + Over the sea! + +Long as a Lapland winter, which no pleasant sunlight cheereth, + The summer shall be +Vainly shall autumn be gay, in the rich robes it weareth, + Vainly for me! +No joy can I feel till the prow of thy vessel appeareth + Over the sea! + +Sweeter than summer, which tenderly, motherly bringeth + Flowers to the bee; +Sweeter than autumn, which bounteously, lovingly flingeth + Fruits on the tree, +Shall be winter, when homeward returning, thy swift vessel wingeth + Over the sea! +</pre> +<p><a name="p023" id="p023"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>OH! HAD I THE WINGS OF A BIRD.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Oh! had I the wings of a bird, + To soar through the blue, sunny sky, +By what breeze would my pinions be stirred? + To what beautiful land should I fly? +Would the gorgeous East allure, + With the light of its golden eyes, +Where the tall green palm, over isles of balm, + Waves with its feathery leaves? + Ah! no! no! no! + I heed not its tempting glare; + In vain should I roam from my island home, + For skies more fair! + +Should I seek a southern sea, + Italia's shore beside, +Where the clustering grape from tree to tree + Hangs in its rosy pride? +My truant heart, be still, + For I long have sighed to stray +Through the myrtle flowers of fair Italy's bowers. + By the shores of its southern bay. + But no! no! no! + Though bright be its sparkling seas, + I never would roam from my island home, + For charms like these! + +Should I seek that land so bright, + Where the Spanish maiden roves, +With a heart of love and an eye of light, + Through her native citron groves? +Oh! sweet would it be to rest + In the midst of the olive vales, +Where the orange blooms and the rose perfumes + The breath of the balmy gales! + But no! no! no!-- + Though sweet be its wooing air, + I never would roam from my island home, + To scenes though fair! + +Should I pass from pole to pole? + Should I seek the western skies, +Where the giant rivers roll, + And the mighty mountains rise? +Or those treacherous isles that lie + In the midst of the sunny deeps, +Where the cocoa stands on the glistening sands, + And the dread tornado sweeps! + Ah! no! no! no! + They have no charms for me; + I never would roam from my island home, + Though poor it be! + +Poor!--oh! 'tis rich in all + That flows from Nature's hand; +Rich in the emerald wall + That guards its emerald land! +Are Italy's fields more green? + Do they teem with a richer store +Than the bright green breast of the Isle of the West, + And its wild, luxuriant shore? + Ah! no! no! no! + Upon it heaven doth smile; + Oh, I never would roam from my native home, + My own dear isle! +</pre> +<p><a name="p025" id="p025"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>LOVE'S LANGUAGE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Need I say how much I love thee?-- + Need my weak words tell, +That I prize but heaven above thee, + Earth not half so well? +If this truth has failed to move thee, + Hope away must flee; +If thou dost not feel I love thee, + Vain my words would be! + +Need I say how long I've sought thee-- + Need my words declare, +Dearest, that I long have thought thee + Good and wise and fair? +If no sigh this truth has brought thee, + Woe, alas! to me; +Where thy own heart has not taught thee, + Vain my words would be! + +Need I say when others wooed thee, + How my breast did pine, +Lest some fond heart that pursued thee + Dearer were than mine? +If no pity then came to thee, + Mixed with love for me, +Vainly would my words imbue thee, + Vain my words would be! + +Love's best language is unspoken, + Yet how simply known; +Eloquent is every token, + Look, and touch, and tone. +If thy heart hath not awoken, + If not yet on thee +Love's sweet silent light hath broken, + Vain my words would be! + +Yet, in words of truest meaning, + Simple, fond, and few; +By the wild waves intervening, + Dearest, I love you! +Vain the hopes my heart is gleaning, + If, long since to thee, +My fond heart required unscreening, + Vain my words will be! +</pre> +<p><a name="p026" id="p026"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE FIRESIDE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +I have tasted all life's pleasures, I have snatched at all its joys, +The dance's merry measures and the revel's festive noise; +Though wit flashed bright the live-long night, and flowed the ruby tide, +I sighed for thee, I sighed for thee, my own fireside! + +In boyhood's dreams I wandered far across the ocean's breast, +In search of some bright earthly star, some happy isle of rest; +I little thought the bliss I sought in roaming far and wide +Was sweetly centred all in thee, my own fireside! + +How sweet to turn at evening's close from all our cares away, +And end in calm, serene repose, the swiftly passing day! +The pleasant books, the smiling looks of sister or of bride, +All fairy ground doth make around one's own fireside! + +"My Lord" would never condescend to honour my poor hearth; +"His Grace" would scorn a host or friend of mere plebeian birth; +And yet the lords of human kind, whom man has deified, +For ever meet in converse sweet around my fireside! + +The poet sings his deathless songs, the sage his lore repeats, +The patriot tells his country's wrongs, the chief his warlike feats; +Though far away may be their clay, and gone their earthly pride, +Each god-like mind in books enshrined still haunts my fireside! + +Oh, let me glance a moment through the coming crowd of years, +Their triumphs or their failures, their sunshine or their tears; +How poor or great may be my fate, I care not what betide, +So peace and love but hallow thee, my own fireside! + +Still let me hold the vision close, and closer to my sight; +Still, still, in hopes elysian, let my spirit wing its flight; +Still let me dream, life's shadowy stream may yield from out its tide, +A mind at rest, a tranquil breast, a quiet fireside! +</pre> +<p><a name="p028" id="p028"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE BANISHED SPIRIT'S SONG.<sup>20</sup></h3> +</center> +<pre> +Beautiful clime, where I've dwelt so long, +In mirth and music, in gladness and song! +Fairer than aught upon earth art thou-- +Beautiful clime, must I leave thee now? + +No more shall I join the circle bright +Of my sister nymphs, when they dance at night +In their grottos cool and their pearly halls, +When the glowworm hangs on the ivy walls! + +No more shall I glide o'er the waters blue, +With a crimson shell for my light canoe, +Or a rose-leaf plucked from the neighbouring trees, +Piloted o'er by the flower-fed breeze! + +Oh! must I leave those spicy gales, +Those purple hills and those flowery vales? +Where the earth is strewed with pansy and rose, +And the golden fruit of the orange grows! + +Oh! must I leave this region fair, +For a world of toil and a life of care? +In its dreary paths how long must I roam, +Far away from my fairy home? + +The song of birds and the hum of bees, +And the breath of flowers, are on the breeze; +The purple plum and the cone-like pear, +Drooping, hang in the rosy air! + +The fountains scatter their pearly rain +On the thirsty flowers and the ripening grain; +The insects sport in the sunny beam, +And the golden fish in the laughing stream. + +The Naiads dance by the river's edge, +On the low, soft moss and the bending sedge; +Wood-nymphs and satyrs and graceful fawns +Sport in the woods, on the grassy lawns! + +The slanting sunbeams tip with gold +The emerald leaves in the forests old-- +But I must away from this fairy scene, +Those leafy woods and those valleys green! +</pre> +<p><sup>20</sup> Written in early youth.</p> +<p><a name="p029" id="p029"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>REMEMBRANCE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +With that pleasant smile thou wearest, +Thou art gazing on the fairest + Wonders of the earth and sea: +Do thou not, in all thy seeing, +Lose the mem'ry of one being + Who at home doth think of thee. + +In the capital of nations, +Sun of all earth's constellations, + Thou art roaming glad and free: +Do thou not, in all thy roving, +Lose the mem'ry of one loving + Heart at home that beats for thee. + +Strange eyes around thee glisten, +To a strange tongue thou dost listen, + Strangers bend the suppliant knee: +Do thou not, for all their seeming +Truth, forget the constant beaming + Eyes at home that watch for thee. + +Stately palaces surround thee, +Royal parks and gardens bound thee-- + Gardens of the <i>Fleur de Lis:</i> +Do thou not, for all their splendour, +Quite forget the humble, tender + Thoughts at home, that turn to thee. + +When, at length of absence weary, +When the year grows sad and dreary, + And an east wind sweeps the sea; +Ere the days of dark November, +Homeward turn, and then remember + Hearts at home that pine for thee! +</pre> +<p><a name="p030" id="p030"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE CLAN OF MAC CAURA.<sup>21</sup></h3> +</center> +<pre> +Oh! bright are the names of the chieftains and sages, +That shine like the stars through the darkness of ages, +Whose deeds are inscribed on the pages of story, +There for ever to live in the sunshine of glory, +Heroes of history, phantoms of fable, +Charlemagne's champions, and Arthur's Round Table; +Oh! but they all a new lustre could borrow +From the glory that hangs round the name of MacCaura! + +Thy waves, Manzanares, wash many a shrine, +And proud are the castles that frown o'er the Rhine, +And stately the mansions whose pinnacles glance +Through the elms of Old England and vineyards of France; +Many have fallen, and many will fall, +Good men and brave men have dwelt in them all, +But as good and as brave men, in gladness and sorrow, +Have dwelt in the halls of the princely MacCaura! + +Montmorency, Medina, unheard was thy rank +By the dark-eyed Iberian and light-hearted Frank, +And your ancestors wandered, obscure and unknown, +By the smooth Guadalquiver and sunny Garonne. +Ere Venice had wedded the sea, or enrolled +The name of a Doge in her proud "Book of Gold;" +When her glory was all to come on like the morrow, +There were the chieftains and kings of the clan of MacCaura! + +Proud should thy heart beat, descendant of Heber,[22] +Lofty thy head as the shrines of the Guebre,[23] +Like them are the halls of thy forefathers shattered, +Like theirs is the wealth of thy palaces scattered. +Their fire is extinguished--thy banner long furled-- +But how proud were ye both in the dawn of the world! +And should both fade away, oh! what heart would not sorrow +O'er the towers of the Guebre--the name of MacCaura! + +What a moment of glory to cherish and dream on, +When far o'er the sea came the ships of Heremon, +With Heber, and Ir, and the Spanish patricians, +To free Inisfail from the spells of magicians.[24] +Oh! reason had these for their quaking and pallor, +For what magic can equal the strong sword of valour? +Better than spells are the axe and the arrow, +When wielded or flung by the hand of MacCaura! + +From that hour a MacCaura had reigned in his pride +O'er Desmond's green valleys and rivers so wide, +From thy waters, Lismore, to the torrents and rills +That are leaping for ever down Brandon's brown hills; +The billows of Bantry, the meadows of Bear, +The wilds of Evaugh, and the groves of Glancare, +From the Shannon's soft shores to the banks of the Barrow, +All owned the proud sway of the princely MacCaura! + +In the house of Miodchuart,[25] by princes surrounded, +How noble his step when the trumpet was sounded, +And his clansmen bore proudly his broad shield before him, +And hung it on high in that bright palace o'er him; +On the left of the monarch the chieftain was seated, +And happy was he whom his proud glances greeted: +'Mid monarchs and chiefs at the great Fes of Tara, +Oh! none was to rival the princely MacCaura! + +To the halls of the Red Branch,[26] when the conquest was o'er, +The champions their rich spoils of victory bore, +And the sword of the Briton, the shield of the Dane, +Flashed bright as the sun on the walls of Eamhain; +There Dathy and Niall bore trophies of war, +From the peaks of the Alps and the waves of Loire; +But no knight ever bore from the hills of Ivaragh +The breast-plate or axe of a conquered MacCaura! + +In chasing the red deer what step was the fleetest?-- +In singing the love song what voice was the sweetest?-- +What breast was the foremost in courting the danger?-- +What door was the widest to shelter the stranger?-- +In friendship the truest, in battle the bravest, +In revel the gayest, in council the gravest?-- +A hunter to-day and a victor to-morrow?-- +Oh! who but a chief of the princely MacCaura! + +But, oh! proud MacCaura, what anguish to touch on +The fatal stain of thy princely escutcheon; +In thy story's bright garden the one spot of bleakness, +Through ages of valour the one hour of weakness! +Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred and royal-- +Thou to kneel to the Norman and swear to be loyal! +Oh! a long night of horror, and outrage, and sorrow, +Have we wept for thy treason, base Diarmid MacCaura![27] + +Oh! why ere you thus to the foreigner pandered, +Did you not bravely call round your emerald standard, +The chiefs of your house of Lough Lene and Clan Awley +O'Donogh, MacPatrick, O'Driscoll, MacAwley, +O'Sullivan More, from the towers of Dunkerron, +And O'Mahon, the chieftain of green Ardinterran? +As the sling sends the stone or the bent bow the arrow, +Every chief would have come at the call of MacCaura. + +Soon, soon didst thou pay for that error in woe, +Thy life to the Butler, thy crown to the foe, +Thy castles dismantled, and strewn on the sod, +And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys of God! +No more in thy halls is the wayfarer fed, +Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft heather spread, +Nor the <i>clairsech's</i> sweet notes, now in mirth, now in sorrow, +All, all have gone by, but the name of MacCaura! + +MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by, +But its name cannot fade, and its fame cannot die, +Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves, shine +Around no green forests or castles of thine-- +Though the shrines that you founded no incense doth hallow, +Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Allo, +One treasure thou keepest, one hope for the morrow-- +True hearts yet beat of the clan of MacCaura! +</pre> +<p><sup>21</sup> MacCarthaig, or MacCarthy.</p> +<p><sup>22</sup> The eldest son of Milesius, King of Spain, in the legendary +history of Ireland.</p> +<p><sup>23</sup> The Round Towers.</p> +<p><sup>24</sup> The Tuatha Dedannans, so called, says Keating, from their +skill in necromancy, for which some were so famous as to be called gods.</p> +<p><sup>25</sup> See Keating's "History of Ireland" and Petrie's "Tara."</p> +<p><sup>26</sup> In the palace of Emania, in Ulster.</p> +<p><sup>27</sup> Diarmid MacCaura, King of Desmond, and Daniel O'Brien, King of +Thomond, were the first of the Irish princes to swear fealty to Henry II.</p> + +<p><a name="p034" id="p034"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE WINDOW.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +At my window, late and early, + In the sunshine and the rain, +When the jocund beams of morning +Come to wake me from my napping, +With their golden fingers tapping + At my window pane: +From my troubled slumbers flitting, + From the dreamings fond and vain, +From the fever intermitting, +Up I start, and take my sitting + At my window pane:-- + +Through the morning, through the noontide, + Fettered by a diamond chain, +Through the early hours of evening, +When the stars begin to tremble, +As their shining ranks assemble + O'er the azure plain: +When the thousand lamps are blazing + Through the street and lane-- +Mimic stars of man's upraising-- +Still I linger, fondly gazing + From my window pane! + +For, amid the crowds slow passing, + Surging like the main, +Like a sunbeam among shadows, +Through the storm-swept cloudy masses, +Sometimes one bright being passes + 'Neath my window pane: +Thus a moment's joy I borrow + From a day of pain. +See, she comes! but--bitter sorrow! +Not until the slow to-morrow, + Will she come again. +</pre> +<p><a name="p035" id="p035"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>AUTUMN FEARS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The weary, dreary, dripping rain, + From morn till night, from night till morn, +Along the hills and o'er the plain, + Strikes down the green and yellow corn; +The flood lies deep upon the ground, + No ripening heat the cold sun yields, +And rank and rotting lies around + The glory of the summer fields! + +How full of fears, how racked with pain, + How torn with care the heart must be, +Of him who sees his golden grain + Laid prostrate thus o'er lawn and lea; +For all that nature doth desire, + All that the shivering mortal shields, +The Christmas fare, the winter's fire, + All comes from out the summer fields. + +I too have strayed in pleasing toil + Along youth's and fertile meads; +I too within Hope's genial soil + Have, trusting, placed Love's golden seeds; +I too have feared the chilling dew, + The heavy rain when thunder pealed, +Lest Fate might blight the flower that grew + For me in Hope's green summer field. + +Ah! who can paint that beauteous flower, + Thus nourished by celestial dew, +Thus growing fairer, hour by hour, + Delighting more, the more it grew; +Bright'ning, not burdening the ground, + Nor proud with inward worth concealed, +But scattering all its fragrance round + Its own sweet sphere, its summer field! + +At morn the gentle flower awoke, + And raised its happy face to God; +At evening, when the starlight broke, + It bending sought the dewy sod; +And thus at morn, and thus at even, + In fragrant sighs its heart revealed, +Thus seeking heaven, and making heaven + Within its own sweet summer field! + +Oh! joy beyond all human joy! + Oh! bliss beyond all earthly bliss! +If pitying Fate will not destroy + My hopes of such a flower as this! +How happy, fond, and heaven-possest, + My heart will be to tend and shield, +And guard upon my grateful breast + The pride of that sweet summer field! +</pre> +<p><a name="p036" id="p036"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>FATAL GIFTS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The poet's heart is a fatal boon, + And fatal his wondrous eye, + And the delicate ear, + So quick to hear, + Over the earth and sky, +Creation's mystic tune! +Soon, soon, but not too soon, +Does that ear grow deaf and that eye grow dim, +And nature becometh a waste for him, + Whom, born for another sphere, + Misery hath shipwrecked here! + +For what availeth his sensitive heart + For the struggle and stormy strife + That the mariner-man, + Since the world began + Has braved on the sea of life? +With fearful wonder his eye doth start, +When it should be fixed on the outspread chart +That pointeth the way to golden shores-- +Rent are his sails and broken his oars, + And he sinks without hope or plan, + With his floating caravan. + +And love, that should be his strength and stay, + Becometh his bane full soon, + Like flowers that are born + Of the beams at morn, + But die of their heat ere noon. +Far better the heart were the sterile clay +Where the shining sands of the desert play, +And where never the perishing flow'ret gleams +Than the heart that is fed with its wither'd dreams, + And whose love is repelled with scorn, + Like the bee by the rose's thorn. +</pre> +<p><a name="p037" id="p037"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>SWEET MAY.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The summer is come!--the summer is come! + With its flowers and its branches green, +Where the young birds chirp on the blossoming boughs, + And the sunlight struggles between: +And, like children, over the earth and sky + The flowers and the light clouds play; +But never before to my heart or eye + Came there ever so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + +Oh! many a time have I wandered out + In the youth of the opening year, +When Nature's face was fair to my eye, + And her voice was sweet to my ear! +When I numbered the daisies, so few and shy, + That I met in my lonely way; +But never before to my heart or eye, + Came there ever so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + +If the flowers delayed, or the beams were cold, + Or the blossoming trees were bare, +I had but to look in the poet's book, + For the summer is always there! +But the sunny page I now put by, + And joy in the darkest day! +For never before to my heart or eye, + Came there ever so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + +For, ah! the belovéd at length has come, + Like the breath of May from afar; +And my heart is lit with gentle eyes, + As the heavens by the evening star. +'Tis this that brightens the darkest sky, + And lengthens the faintest ray, +And makes me feel that to the heart or eye + There was never so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! +</pre> +<p><a name="p039" id="p039"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>FERDIAH;<sup>28</sup></h3> +<h5>OR, THE FIGHT AT THE FORD.</h5> +<p><i>An Episode from the Ancient Irish Epic Romance,<br /> +"The Tain Bó Cuailgné; or, the Cattle Prey of Cuailgné."</i></p> +</center> +<p>["The <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné</i>" says the late Professor O'Curry, +"is to Irish what the Argonautic Expedition, or the Seven +against Thebes, is to Grecian history."  For an account of this, +perhaps the earliest epic romance of Western Europe, see the +Professor's "Lectures on the Manuscript Materials of Irish +History."</p> +<p>The Fight of Cuchullin with Ferdiah took place in the +modern county of Louth, at the ford of Ardee, which still +preserves the name of the departed champion, Ardee being the +softened form of <i>Ath Ferdiah,</i> or Ferdiah's Ford.</p> +<p>The circumstances under which this famous combat took +place are thus succinctly mentioned by O'Curry, in his description +of the <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné:—</i></p> +<p>"Cuchulainn confronts the invaders of his province, demands +single combat, and conjures his opponents by the laws +of Irish chivalry (the <i>Fir comhlainn</i>) not to advance farther +until they had conquered <i>him.</i>  This demand, in accordance +with the Irish laws of warfare, is granted; and then the +whole contest is resolved into a succession of single combats, +in each of which Cuchulainn was victorious."—"Lectures," p. +37.</p> +<p>The original Irish text of this episode, with a literal translation, +on which the present metrical version is founded, may +be consulted in the appendix to the second series of the +Lectures by O'Curry, vol. ii., p. 413.</p> +<p>The date assigned to the famous expedition of the <i>Tain Bó +Cuailgné,</i> and consequently to the episode which forms the +subject of the present poem, is the close of the century immediately +preceding the commencement of the Christian era.  +This will account for the complete absence of all Christian +allusions, so remarkable throughout the poem: an additional +proof, if that were required, of its extreme antiquity.]</p> +<pre> +Cuchullin the great chief had pitched his tent, +From Samhain[29] time, till now 'twas budding spring, +Fast by the Ford, and held the land at bay. +All Erin, save the fragment that he led, +His sword held back, nor dared a man to cross +The rippling Ford without Cuchullin's leave: +Chief after chief had fallen in the attempt; +And now the men of Erin through the night +Asked in dismay, "Oh! who shall be the next +To face the northern hound[30] and free the Ford?" +"Let it now be," with one accord they cried, +"Ferdiah, son of Dâman Dáré's son, +Of Domnann[31] lord, and all its warrior men." +The chiefs thus fated now to meet as foes +In early life were friends--had both been taught +All feats of arms by the same skilful hands +In Scatha's[32] school beneath the peaks of Skye, +Which still preserve Cuchullin's glorious name. +One feat of arms alone Cuchullin knew +Ferdiah knew not of--the fatal cast-- +The dread expanding force of the gaebulg[33] +Flung from the foot resistless on the foe. +But, on the other hand, Ferdiah wore +A skin-protecting suit of flashing steel[34] +Surpassing all in Erin known till then. +At length the council closed, and to the chief +Heralds were sent to tell them that the choice +That night had fallen on him; but he within +His tent retired, received them not, nor went. +For well he knew the purport of their suit +Was this--that he should fight beside the Ford +His former fellow-pupil and his friend. +Then Mave,[35] the queen, her powerful druids sent, +Armed not alone with satire's scorpion stings, +But with the magic power even on the face, +By their malevolent taunts and biting sneers, +To raise three blistering blots[36] that typified +Disgrace, dishonour, and a coward's shame, +Which with their mortal venom him would kill, +Or on the hour, or ere nine days had sped, +If he declined the combat, and refused +Upon the instant to come forth with them, +And so, for honour's sake, Ferdiah came. +For he preferred to die a warrior's death, +Pierced to the heart by a proud foeman's spear, +Than by the serpent sting of slanderous tongues-- +By satire and abuse, and foul reproach. +When to the court he came, where the great queen +Held revel, he received all due respect: +The sweet intoxicating cup went round, +And soon Ferdiah felt the power of wine. +Great were the rich rewards then promised him +For going forth to battle with the Hound: +A chariot worth seven cumals four times told,[37] +The outfit then of twelve well-chosen men +Made of more colours than the rainbow knows, +His own broad plains of level fair Magh Aie,[38] +To him and his assured till time was o'er +Free of all tribute, without fee or fine; +The golden brooch, too, from the queen's own cloak, +And, above all, fair Finavair[39] for wife. +But doubtful was Ferdiah of the queen, +And half excited by the fiery cup, +And half distrustful, knowing wily Mave, +He asked for more assurance of her faith. +Then she to him, in rhythmic rise of song, +And he in measured ranns to her replied. + +MAVE.[40] + +A rich reward of golden rings + I'll give to thee, Ferdiah fair, +The forest, where the wild bird sings, + the broad green plain, with me thou'lt share; +Thy children and thy children's seed, + for ever, until time is o'er, +Shall be from every service freed + within the sea-surrounding shore. +Oh, Daman's son, Ferdiah fair, + oh, champion of the wounds renowned, +For thou a charmèd life dost bear, + since ever by the victories crowned, +Oh! why the proffered gifts decline, + oh! why reject the nobler fame, +Which many an arm less brave than thine, + which many a heart less bold, would claim? + +FERDIAH. + +Without a guarantee, O queen! + without assurance made most sure, +Thy grassy plains, thy woodlands green, + thy golden rings are but a lure. +The champion's place is not for me + until thou art most firmly bound, +For dreadful will the battle be + between me and Emania's Hound. +For such is Chuland's name, + O queen, and such is Chuland's nature, too, +The noble Hound, the Hound of fame, + the noble heart to dare and do, +The fearful fangs that never yield, + the agile spring so swift and light: +Ah! dread the fortune of the field! + ah! fierce will be the impending fight! + +MAVE. + +I'll give a champion's guarantee, + and with thee here a compact make, +That in the assemblies thou shalt be + no longer bound thy place to take; +Rich silver-bitted bridles fair-- + for such each noble neck demands-- +And gallant steeds that paw the air, + shall all be given into thy hands. +For thou, Ferdiah, art indeed + a truly brave and valorous man, +The first of all the chiefs I lead, + the foremost hero in the van; +My chosen champion now thou art, + my dearest friend henceforth thou'lt be, +The very closest to my heart, + from every toll and tribute free. + +FERDIAH. + +Without securities, I say, + united with thy royal word, +I will not go, when breaks the day, + to seek the combat at the Ford. +That contest, while time runs its course, + and fame records what ne'er should die, +Shall live for ever in full force, + until the judgment day draws nigh. +I will not go, though death ensue, + though thou through some demoniac rite, +Even as thy druid sorcerers do, + canst kill me with thy words of might: +I will not go the Ford to free, + until, O queen! thou here dost swear +By sun and moon,[41] by land and sea, + by all the powers of earth and air. + +MAVE. + +Thou shalt have all; do <i>thou</i> decide. + I'll give thee an unbounded claim; +Until thy doubts are satisfied, + oh! bind us by each sacred name;-- +Bind us upon the hands of kings, + upon the hands of princes bind; +Bind us by every act that brings + assurance to the doubting mind. +Ask what thou wilt, and do not fear + that what thou wouldst cannot be wrought; +Ask what thou wilt, there standeth here + one who will ne'er refuse thee aught; +Ask what thou wilt, thy wildest wish + be certain thou shalt have this night, +For well I know that thou wilt kill this + man who meets thee in the fight. + +FERDIAH. + +I will have six securities, + no less will I accept from thee; +Be some our country's deities, + the lords of earth, and sky, and sea; +Be some thy dearest ones, O queen! + the darlings of thy heart and eye, +Before my fatal fall is seen + to-morrow, when the hosts draw nigh. +Do this, and though I lose my fame-- + do this, and though my life I lose, +The glorious championship I'll claim, + the glorious risk will not refuse. +On, on, in equal strength and might + shall I advance, O queenly Mave, +And Uladh's hero meet in fight, + and battle with Cuchullin brave. + +MAVE. + +Though Domnal[42] it should be, the sun, + swift-speeding in his fiery car; +Though Niaman's[43] dread name be one, + the consort of the God of War; +These, even these I'll give, though hard + to lure them from their realms serene, +For though they list to lowliest bard,[44] + they may be deaf unto a queen. +Bind it on Morand, if thou wilt, + to make assurance doubly sure; +Bind it, nor dream that dream of guilt + that such a pact will not endure. +By spirits of the wave and wind, + by every spell, by every art, +Bind Carpri Min of Manand, + bind my sons, the darlings of my heart. + +FERDIAH. + +O Mave! with venom of deceit + that adder tongue of thine o'erflows, +Nor is thy temper over-sweet, + as well thine earlier consort knows. +Thou'rt truly worthy of thy fame + for boastful speech and lust of power, +And well dost thou deserve thy name-- + the Brachail of Rathcroghan's tower.[45] +Thy words are fair and soft, O queen! + but still I crave one further proof-- +Give me the scarf of silken sheen, + give me the speckled satin woof, +Give from thy cloak's empurpled fold + the golden brooch so fair to see, +And when the glorious gift I hold, + for ever am I bound to thee. + +MAVE. + +Oh! art thou not my chosen chief, + my foremost champion, sure to win, +My tower, my fortress of relief, + to whom I give this twisted pin? +These, and a thousand gifts more rare, + the treasures of the earth and sea, +Jewels a queen herself might wear, + my grateful hands will give to thee. +And when at length beneath thy sword + the Hound of Ulster shall lie low, +When thou hast ope'd the long-locked Ford, + and let the unguarded water flow, +Then shall I give my daughter's hand, + then my own child shall be thy bride-- +She, the fair daughter of the land + where western Elgga's[46] waters glide. + +And thus did Mave Ferdiah bind to fight +Six chosen champions on the morrow morn, +Or combat with Cuchullin all alone, +Whichever might to him the easier seem. +And he, by the gods' names and by her sons, +Bound <i>her</i> the promise she had made to keep, +The rich reward to pay to him in full, +If by his hand Cuchullin should be slain. +For Fergus, young Cuchullin's early friend, +The steeds that night were harnessed, and he flew +Swift in his chariot to the hero's tent. +"Glad am I at thy coming, O my friend!" +Cuchullin said: "My pupil, I accept +With joy thy welcome," Fergus quick replied: +"But what I come for is to give thee news +Of him who here will fight thee in the morn." +"I listen," said Cuchullin, "do thou speak." +"Thine own companion is it, thine own peer, +Thy rival in all daring feats of arms, +Ferdiah, son of Dáman, Daré's son, +Of Domnand lord and all its warrior men." +"Be sure of this," Cuchullin made reply, +"That never wish of mine it could have been +A friend should thus come forth with me to fight." +"It therefore doth behove thee now, my son," +Fergus replied, "to be upon thy guard, +Prepared at every point; for not like those +Who hitherto have come to fight with thee +Upon the <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné,</i> is the chief, +Ferdiah, son of Dáman, Daré's son." +"Here I have been," Cuchullin proudly said, +"From Samhain up to Imbule--from the first +Of winter days even to the first of spring-- +Holding the four great provinces in check +That make up Erin, not one foot have I +Yielded to any man in all that time, +Nor even to him shall I a foot give way." +And thus the parley went: first Fergus spoke, +Cuchullin then to him in turn replied: + +FERGUS. + +Time is it, O Cuchullin, to arise, + Time for the fearful combat to prepare; +For hither with the anger in his eyes, + To fight thee comes Ferdiah called the Fair. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Here I have been, nor has the task been light, + Holding all Erin's warriors at bay: +No foot of ground have I in recreant flight + Yielded to any man or shunned the fray. + +FERGUS. + +When roused to rage, resistless in his might, + Fearless the man is, for his sword ne'er fails: +A skin-protecting coat of armour bright + He wears, 'gainst which no valour e'er prevails. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Oh! brave in arms, my Fergus, say not so, + Urge not thy story further on the night:-- +On any friend, or facing any foe + I never was behind him in the fight. + +FERGUS. + +Brave is the man, I say, in battles fierce, + Him it will not be easy to subdue, +Swords cut him not, nor can the sharp spear pierce, + Strong as a hundred men to dare and do. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Well, should we chance to meet beside the Ford, + I and this chief whose valour ne'er has failed, +Story shall tell the fortune of each sword, + And who succumbed and who it was prevailed. + +FERGUS. + +Ah! liefer than a royal recompense + To me it were, O champion of the sword, +That thine it were to carry eastward hence + The proud Ferdiah's purple from the Ford. + +CUCHULLIN. + +I pledge my word, I vow, and not in vain, + Though in the combat we may be as one, +That it is I who shall the victory gain + Over the son of Dáman, Daré's son. + +FERGUS. + +'Twas I that gathered eastward all the bands, + Revenging the foul wrong upon me wrought +By the Ultonians. Hither from their lands + The chiefs, the battle-warriors I have brought. + +CUCHULLIN. + +If Conor's royal strength had not decayed, + Hard would have been the strife on either side: +Mave of the Plain of Champions had not made + A foray then of so much boastful pride. + +FERGUS. + +To-day awaits thy hand a greater deed, + To battle with Ferdiah, Dáman's son. +Hard, bloody weapons with sharp points thou'lt need, + Cuchullin, ere the victory be won. + +Then Fergus to the court and camp went back, +While to his people and his tent repaired +Ferdiah, and he told them of the pact +Made that same night between him and the queen. + +The dwellers in Ferdiah's tent that night +Were scant of comfort, a foreboding fear +Fell on their spirits and their hearts weighed down; +Because they knew in whatsoever fight +The mighty chiefs, the hundred-slaying two +Met face to face, that one of them must fall, +Or both, perhaps, or if but only one, +Certain were they it would their own lord be, +Since on the <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné,</i> it was plain +That no one with Cuchullin could contend. + + Nor was their chief less troubled; but at first +The fumes of the late revel overpowered +His senses, and he slept a heavy sleep. +Later he woke, the intoxicating steam +Had left his brain, and now in sober calm +All the anxieties of the impending fight +Pressed on his soul and made him grave.[47] He rose +From off his couch, and bade his charioteer +Harness his pawing horses to the car. +The boy would fain persuade his lord to stay, +Because he loved his master, and he felt +He went but to his death; but he repelled +The youth's advice, and spoke to him these words-- +"Oh! cease, my servant. I will not be turned +By any youth from what I have resolved." +And thus in speech and answer spoke the two-- + +FERDIAH. + +Let us go to this challenge, + Let us fly to the Ford, +When the raven shall croak + O'er my blood-dripping sword. +Oh, woe for Cuchullin! + That sword will be red; +Oh, woe! for to-morrow + The hero lies dead. + +CHARIOTEER. + +Thy words are not gentle, + Yet rest where thou art, +'Twill be dreadful to meet, + And distressful to part. +The champion of Ulster! + Oh! think what a foe! +In that meeting there's grief, + In that journey there's woe! + +FERDIAH. + +Thy counsel is craven, + Thy caution I slight, +No brave-hearted champion + Should shrink from the fight. +The blood I inherit + Doth prompt me to do-- +Let us go to the challenge, + To the Ford let us go! + +Then were the horses of Ferdiah yoked +Unto the chariot, and he rode full speed +Unto the Ford of battle, and the day +Began to break, and all the east grew red. + + Beside the Ford he halted. "Good, my friend," +He said unto his servant, "Spread for me +The skins and cushions of my chariot here +Beneath me, that I may a full deep sleep +Enjoy before the hour of fight arrives; +For in the latter portion of the night +I slept not, thinking of the fight to come." +Unharnessed were the horses, and the boy +Spread out the cushions and the chariot's skins, +And heavy sleep fell on Ferdiah's lids. + + Now of Cuchullin will I speak. He rose +Not until day with all its light had come, +In order that the men of Erin ne'er +Should say of him that it was fear or dread +That made him from a restless couch arise. +When in the fulness of its light at length +Shone forth the day, he bade his charioteer +Harness his horses and his chariot yoke. +"Harness my horses, good, my servant," said +Cuchullin, "and my chariot yoke for me, +For lo! an early-rising champion comes +To meet us here beside the Ford to-day-- +Ferdiah, son of Daman, Daré's son." +"My lord, the steeds are ready to thy hand; +Thy chariot stands here yoked, do thou step in; +The noble car will not disgrace its lord." + + Into the chariot, then, the dextrous, bold, +Red-sworded, battle-winning hero sprang +Cuchullin, son of Sualtam, at a bound. +Invisible Bocanachs and Bananachs, +And Geniti Glindi[48] shouted round the car, +And demons of the earth and of the air. +For thus the Tuatha de Danaans used +By sorceries to raise those fearful cries +Around him, that the terror and the fear +Of him should be the greater, as he swept +On with his staff of spirits to the war. + + Soon was it when Ferdiah's charioteer +Heard the approaching clamour and the shout, +The rattle and the clatter, and the roar, +The whistle, and the thunder, and the tramp, +The clanking discord of the missive shields, +The clang of swords, the hissing sound of spears, +The tinkling of the helmet, the sharp crash +Of armour and of arms, the straining ropes, +The dangling bucklers, the resounding wheels, +The creaking chariot, and the proud approach +Of the triumphant champion of the Ford. + Clutching his master's robe, the charioteer +Cried out, "Ferdiah, rise! for lo, thy foes +Are on thee!" Then the Spirit of Insight fell +Prophetic on the youth, and thus he sang. + +CHARIOTEER. + +I hear the rushing of a car, + Near and more near its proud wheels run +A chariot for the God of War + Bursts--as from clouds the sun! +Over Bregg-Ross it speeds along, + Hark! its thunders peal afar! +Oh! its steeds are swift and strong, + And the Victories guide that car. + +The Hound of Ulster shaketh the reins, + And white with foam is each courser's mouth; +The Hawk of Ulster swoops o'er the plains + To his quarry here in the south. +Like wintry storm that warrior's form, + Slaughter and Death beside him rush; +The groaning air is dark and warm, + And the low clouds bleed and blush.[49] + +Oh, woe to him that is here on the hill, + Who is here on the hillock awaiting the Hound; +Last year it was in a vision of ill + I saw this sight and I heard this sound. +Methought Emania's Hound drew nigh, + Methought the Hound of Battle drew near, +I heard his steps and I saw his eye, + And again I see and I hear. + +Then answer made Ferdiah in this wise: +"Why dost thou chafe me, talking of this man? +For thou hast never ceased to sing his praise +Since from his home he came. Thou surely art +Not without wage for this: but nathless know +Ailill and Mave have both foretold--by me +This man shall fall, shall fall for a reward +Just as the deed: This day he shall be slain, +For it is fated that I free the Ford. +'Tis time for the relief."--And thus they spake: + +FERDIAH. + +Yes, it is time for the relief; + Be silent then, nor speak his praise, +For prophecy forebodes this chief + Shall pass not the predestined days; +Does fate for this forego its claim, + That Cuailgné's champion here should come +In all his pride and pomp of fame?-- + Be sure he comes but to his doom. + +CHARIOTEER. + +If Cuailgné's champion here I see + In all his pride and pomp of fame, +He little heeds the prophecy, + So swift his course, so straight his aim. +Towards us he flies, as flies the gleam + Of lightning, or as waters flow +From some high cliff o'er which the stream + Drops in the foaming depths below. + +FERDIAH. + +Highly rewarded thou must be, + For much reward thou sure canst claim, +Else why with such persistency + Thus sing his praises since he came? +And now that he approacheth nigh, + And now that he doth draw more near, +It seems it is to glorify + And not to attack him thou art here. + +Not long Ferdiah's charioteer had gazed +With wondering look on the majestic car, +When, as with thunder-speed it wheeled more near, +He saw its whole construction and its plan: +A fair, flesh-seeking, four-peaked front it had, +And for its body a magnificent creit +Fashioned for war, in which the hero stood +Full-armed and brandishing a mighty spear, +While o'er his head a green pavilion hung; +Beneath, two fleetly-bounding, large-eared, fierce, +Whale-bellied, lively-hearted, high-flanked, proud, +Slender-legged, wide-hoofed, broad-buttocked, prancing steeds, +Exulting leaped and bore the car along: +Under one yoke, the broad-backed steed was gray, +Under the other, black the long-maned steed. + +Like to a hawk swooping from off a cliff, +Upon a day of harsh and biting wind, +Or like a spring gust on a wild March morn +Rushing resistless o'er a level plain, +Or like the fleetness of a stag when first +'Tis started by the hounds in its first field-- +So swept the horses of Cuchullin's car, +Bounding as if o'er fiery flags they flew, +Making the earth to shake beneath their tread, +And tremble 'neath the fleetness of their speed. + +At length, upon the north side of the Ford, +Cuchullin stopped. Upon the southern bank +Ferdiah stood, and thus addressed the chief: +"Glad am I, O Cuchullin, thou hast come." +"Up to this day," Cuchullin made reply, +"Thy welcome would by me have been received +As coming from a friend, but not to-day. +Besides, 'twere fitter that I welcomed thee, +Than that to me thou shouldst the welcome give; +'Tis I that should go forth to fight with thee, +Not thou to me, because before thee are +My women and my children, and my youths, +My herds and flocks, my horses and my steeds." + Ferdiah, half in scorn, spake then these words-- +And then Cuchullin answered in his turn. +"Good, O Cuchullin, what untoward fate +Has brought thee here to measure swords with me? +For when we two with Scatha lived, in Skye, +With Uatha, and with Aifé, thou wert then +My page to spread my couch for me at night, +Or tie my spears together for the chase." + "True hast thou spoken," said Cuchullin; "yes, +I then was young, thy junior, and I did +For thee the services thou dost recall; +A different story shall be told of us +From this day forth, for on this day I feel +Earth holds no champion that I dare not fight!" +And thus invectives bitter, sharp and cold, +Between the two were uttered, and first spake +Ferdiah, then alternate each with each. + +FERDIAH. + +What has brought thee here, O Hound, + To encounter a strong foe? +O'er the trappings of thy steeds + Crimson-red thy blood shall flow. +Woe is in thy journey, woe; + Let the cunning leech prepare; +Shouldst thou ever reach thy home, + Thou shalt need his care. + +CUCHULLIN. + +I, who here with warriors fought, + With the lordly chiefs of hosts, +With a hundred men at once, + Little heed thy empty boasts. +Thee beneath the wave to place, + Thee to strike and thee to slay +In the first path of our fight + Am I here to-day. + +FERDIAH. + +Thy reproach in me behold, + For 'tis I that deed will do, +'Tis of me that Fame shall tell + He the Ultonian's champion slew. +Yes, in spite of all their hosts, + Yes, in spite of all their prayers: +So it shall long be told + That the loss was theirs. + +CUCHULLIN. + +How, then, shall we first engage-- + Is it with the hard-edged sword? +In what order shall we go + To the battle of the Ford? +Shall we in our chariots ride? + Shall we wield the bloody spear? +How am I to hew thee down + With thy proud hosts here? + +FERDIAH. + +Ere the setting of the sun, + Ere shall come the darksome night, +If again thou must be told, + With a mountain thou shalt fight: +Thee the Ultonians will extol, + Thence impetuous wilt thou grow, +Oh! their grief, when through their ranks + Will thy spectre go! + +CUCHULLIN. + +Thou hast fallen in danger's gap, + Yes, thy end of life is nigh; +Sharp spears shall be plied on thee + Fairly 'neath the open sky: +Pompous thou wilt be and vain + Till the time for talk is o'er, +From this day a battle-chief + Thou shalt be no more. + +FERDIAH. + +Cease thy boastings, for the world + Sure no braggart hath like thee: +Thou art not the chosen chief-- + Thou hast not the champion's fee:-- +Without action, without force, + Thou art but a giggling page; +Yes, thou trembler, with thy heart + Like a bird's in cage. + +CUCHULLIN. + +When we were with Scatha once, + It but seemed our valour's due +That we should together fight, + Both as one our sports pursue. +Thou wert then my dearest friend, + Comrade, kinsman, thou wert all,-- +Ah, how sad, if by my hand + Thou at last should fall. + +FERDIAH. + +Much of honour shalt thou lose, + We may then mere words forego:-- +On a stake thy head shall be + Ere the early cock shall crow. +O Cuchullin, Cuailgné's pride, + Grief and madness round thee twine; +I will do thee every ill, + For the fault is thine. + +"Good, O Ferdiah, 'twas no knightly act," +Cuchullin said, "to have come meanly here, +To combat and to fight with an old friend, +Through instigation of the wily Mave, +Through intermeddling of Ailill the king; +To none of those who here before thee came +Was victory given, for they all fell by me:-- +Thou too shalt win nor victory, nor increase +Of fame in this encounter thou dost dare, +For as they fell, so thou by me shall fall." +Thus was he saying and he spake these words, +To which Ferdiah listened, not unmoved. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Come not to me, O champion of the host, + Come not to me, Ferdiah, as my foe, +For though it is thy fate to suffer most, + All, all must feel the universal woe. + +Come not to me defying what is right, + Come not to me, thy life is in my power; +Ah, the dread issue of each former fight + Why hast thou not remembered ere this hour? + +Art thou not bright with diverse dainty arms, + A purple girdle and a coat of mail? +And yet to win the maid of peerless charms + For whom thou dar'st the battle thou shalt fail. + +Yes, Finavair, the daughter of the queen, + The faultless form, the gold without alloy, +The glorious virgin of majestic mien, + Shalt not be thine, Ferdiah, to enjoy. + +No, the great prize shall not by thee be won,-- + A fatal lure, a false, false light is she, +To numbers promised and yet given to none, + And wounding many as she now wounds thee. + +Break not thy vow, never with me to fight, + Break not the bond that once thy young heart gave, +Break not the truth we both so loved to plight, + Come not to me, O champion bold and brave! + +To fifty champions by her smiles made slaves + The maid was proffered, and not slight the gift; +By me they have been sent into their graves, + From me they met destruction sure and swift. + +Though vauntingly Ferbaeth my arms defied, + He of a house of heroes prince and peer, +Short was the time until I tamed his pride + With one swift cast of my true battle-spear. + +Srub Dairé's valour too had swift decline: + Hundreds of women's secrets he possessed, +Great at one time was his renown as thine, + In cloth of gold, not silver, was he dressed. + +Though 'twas to me the woman was betrothed + On whom the chiefs of the fair province smile, +To shed thy blood my spirit would have loathed + East, west, or north, or south of all the isle. + +"Good, O Ferdiah," still continuing, spoke +Cuchullin, "thus it is that thou shouldst not +Have come with me to combat and to fight; +For when we were with Scatha, long ago, +With Uatha and with Aifé, we were wont +To go together to each battle-field, +To every combat and to every fight, +Through every forest, every wilderness, +Through every darksome path and dangerous way." +And thus he said and thus he spake these words: + +CUCHULLIN. + +We were heart-comrades then,-- +Comrades in crowds of men, +In the same bed have lain, + When slumber sought us; +In countries far and near, +Hurling the battle spear, +Chasing the forest deer, + As Scatha taught us. + + "O Cuchullin of the beautiful feats," +Replied Ferdiah, "though we have pursued +Together thus the arts of war and peace, +And though the bonds of friendship that we swore +Thou hast recalled to mind, from me shall come +Thy first of wounds. O Hound, remember not +Our old companionship, which shall not now +Avail thee, shall avail thee not, O Hound!" +"Too long here have we waited in this way," +Again resumed Ferdiah. "To what arms, +Say then, Cuchullin, shall we now resort?" +"The choice of arms is thine until the night," +Cuchullin made reply; "for so it chanced +That thou shouldst be the first to reach the Ford." +"Dost thou at all remember," then rejoined +Ferdiah, "those swift missive spears with which +We practised oft with Scatha in our youth, +With Uatha and with Aifé, and our friends?" +"Them I, indeed, remember well," replied +Cuchullin. "If thou dost remember well, +Let us to them resort," Ferdiah said. +Their missive weapons then on either side +They both resorted to. Upon their arms +They braced two emblematic missive shields, +And their eight well-turned-handled lances took, +Their eight quill-javelins also, and their eight +White ivory-hilted swords, and their eight spears, +Sharp, ivory-hafted, with hard points of steel. +Betwixt the twain the darts went to and fro, +Like bees upon the wing on a fine day; +No cast was made that was not sure to hit. +From morn to nigh mid-day the missiles flew, +Till on the bosses of the brazen shields +Their points were blunted, but though true the aim, +And excellent the shooting, the defence +Was so complete that not a wound was given, +And neither champion drew the other's blood. +"'Tis time to drop these feats," Ferdiah said, +"For not by such as these shall we decide +Our battle here this day." "Let us desist," +Cuchullin answered, "if the time hath come." +They ceased, and threw their missile shafts aside +Into the hands of their two charioteers. +"What weapons, O Cuchullin, shall we now +Resort to?" said Ferdiah. "Unto thee," +Cuchullin answered, "doth belong the choice +Of arms until the night, because thou wert +The first that reached the Ford." "Well, let us, then," +Ferdiah said, "resume our straight, smooth, hard, +Well-polished spears with their hard flaxen strings." +"Let us resume them, then," Cuchullin said. +They braced upon their arms two stouter shields, +And then resorted to their straight, smooth, hard, +Well-polished spears, with their hard flaxen strings.[50] +'Twas now mid-day, and thus 'till eventide +They shot against each other with the spears. +But though the guard was good on either side, +The shooting was so perfect that the blood +Ran from the wounds of each, by each made red. +"Let us now, O Cuchullin," interposed +Ferdiah, "for the present time desist." +"Let us indeed desist," Cuchullin said +"If, O Ferdiah, the fit time hath come." +They ceased, and laid their gory weapons down, +Their faithful charioteers' attendant care. +Each to the other gently then approached, +Each round the other's neck his hands entwined, +And gave him three fond kisses on the cheek. +Their horses fed in the same field that night, +Their charioteers were warmed at the same fire, +Their charioteers beneath their bodies spread +Green rushes, and beneath the heads the down +Of wounded men's soft pillows. Then the skilled +Professors of the art of healing came +With herbs, which to the scars of all their wounds +They put. Of every herb and healing plant +That to Cuchullin's wound they did apply, +He would an equal portion westward send +Over the Ford, Ferdiah's wounds to heal. +So that the men of Erin could not say, +If it should chance Ferdiah fell by him, +That it was through superior skill and care +Cuchullin was enabled him to slay. + + Of each kind, too, of palatable food +And sweet, intoxicating, pleasant drink, +The men of Erin to Ferdiah sent, +He a fair moiety across the Ford +Sent northward to Cuchullin, where he lay; +Because his own purveyors far surpassed +In numbers those the Ulster chief retained: +For all the federate hosts of Erin were +Purveyors to Ferdiah, with the hope +That he would beat Cuchullin from the Ford. +The Bregians[51] only were Cuchullin's friends, +His sole purveyors, and their wont it was +To come to him and talk to him at night. + + That night they rested there. Next morn they rose +And to the Ford of battle early came. +"What weapons shall we use to-day?" inquired +Cuchullin. "Until night the choice is thine," +Replied Ferdiah; "for the choice of arms +Has hitherto been mine." "Then let us take +Our great broad spears to-day," Cuchullin said, +"And may the thrusting bring us to an end +Sooner than yesterday's less powerful darts. +Let then our charioteers our horses yoke +Beneath our chariots, so that we to-day +May from our horses and our chariots fight." +Ferdiah answered: "Let it so be done." +And then they braced their two broad, full-firm shields +Upon their arms that day, and in their hands +That day they took their great broad-bladed spears. + And thus from early morn to evening's close +They smote each other with such dread effect +That both were pierced, and both made red with gore,-- +Such wounds, such hideous clefts in either breast +Lay open to the back, that if the birds +Cared ever through men's wounded frames to pass, +They might have passed that day, and with them borne +Pieces of quivering flesh into the air. +When evening came, their very steeds were tired, +Their charioteers depressed, and they themselves +Worn out--even they the champions bold and brave. +"Let us from this, Ferdiah, now desist," +Cuchullin said; "for see, our charioteers +Droop, and our very horses flag and fail, +And when fatigued they yield, so well may we." +And further thus he spoke, persuading rest:-- + +CUCHULLIN. + +Not with the obstinate rage and spite +With which Fomorian pirates fight +Let us, since now has fallen the night, + Continue thus our feud; +In brief abeyance it may rest, +Now that a calm comes o'er each breast:-- +When with new light the world is blest, + Be it again renewed." + +"Let us desist, indeed," Ferdiah said, +"If the fit time hath come."--And so they ceased. +From them they threw their arms into the hands +Of their two charioteers. Each of them came +Forward to meet the other. Each his hands +Put round the other's neck, and thus embraced, +Gave to him three fond kisses on the cheek. +Their horses fed in the same field that night; +Their charioteers were warmed by the same fire. +Their charioteers beneath their bodies spread +Green rushes, and beneath their heads the down +Of wounded men's soft pillows. Then the skilled +Professors of the art of healing came +To tend them and to cure them through the night. +But they for all their skill could do no more, +So numerous and so dangerous were the wounds, +The cuts, and clefts, and scars so large and deep, +But to apply to them the potent charms +Of witchcraft, incantations, and barb spells, +As sorcerers use, to stanch the blood and stay +The life that else would through the wounds escape:-- +Of every charm of witchcraft, every spell, +Of every incantation that was used +To heal Cuchullin's wounds, a full fair half +Over the Ford was westward sent to heal +Ferdiah's hurts: of every sort of food, +And sweet, intoxicating, pleasant drink +The men of Erin to Ferdiah sent, +He a fair moiety across the Ford +Sent northward to Cuchullin where he lay, +Because his own purveyors far surpassed +In number those the Ulster chief retained. +For all the federate hosts of Erin were +Purveyors to Ferdiah, with the hope +That he would beat Cuchullin from the Ford. +The Bregians only were Cuchullin's friends-- +His sole purveyors--and their wont it was +To come to him, and talk with him at night. + +They rested there that night. Next morn they rose, +And to the Ford of battle forward came. +That day a great, ill-favoured, lowering cloud +Upon Ferdiah's face Cuchullin saw. +"Badly," said he, "dost thou appear this day, +Ferdiah, for thy hair has duskier grown +This day, and a dull stupour dims thine eyes, +And thine own face and form, and what thou wert +In outward seeming have deserted thee." +"'Tis not through fear of thee that I am so," +Ferdiah said, "for Erin doth not hold +This day a champion I could not subdue." +And thus betwixt the twain this speech arose, +And thus Cuchullin mourned and he replied: + +CUCHULLIN. + +O Ferdiah, if it be thou, +Certain am I that on thy brow +The blush should burn and the shame should rise, +Degraded man whom the gods despise, +Here at a woman's bidding to wend +To fight thy fellow-pupil and friend. + +FERDIAH. + +O Cuchullin, O valiant man, +Inflicter of wounds since the war began, +O true champion, a man must come +To the fated spot of his final home,-- +To the sod predestined by fate's decree +His resting-place and his grave to be. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Finavair, the daughter of Mave, +Although thou art her willing slave, +Not for thy long-felt love has been +Promised to thee by the wily queen,-- +No, it was but to test thy might +That thou wert lured into this fatal fight. + +FERDIAH. + +My might was tested long ago +In many a battle, as thou dost know, +Long, O Hound of the gentle rule, +Since we fought together in Scatha's school: +Never a braver man have I seen, +Never, I feel, hath a braver been. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Thou art the cause of what has been done, +O son of Dáman, Daré's son, +Of all that has happened thou art the cause, +Whom hither a woman's counsel draws-- +Whom hither a wily woman doth send +To measure swords with thy earliest friend. + +FERDIAH. + +If I forsook the field, O Hound, +If I had turned from the battleground-- +This battleground without fight with thee, +Hard, oh, hard had it gone with me; +Bad should my name and fame have been +With King Ailill and with Mave the queen. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Though Mave of Croghan had given me food, +Even from her lips, though all of good +That the heart can wish or wealth can give +Were offered to me, there does not live +A king or queen on the earth for whom +I would do thee ill or provoke thy doom. + +FERDIAH. + +O Cuchullin, thou victor in fight, +Of battle triumphs the foremost knight; +To what result the fight may lead, +'Twas Mave alone that prompted the deed; +Not thine the fault, not thine the blame, +Take thou the victory and the fame. + +CUCHULLIN. + +My faithful heart is a clot of blood, +A feud thus forced cannot end in good; +Oh, woe to him who is here to be slain! +Oh, grief to him who his life will gain! +For feats of valour no strength have I +To fight the fight where my friend must die. + +"A truce to these invectives," then broke in +Ferdiah; "we far other work this day +Have yet to do than rail with woman's words. +Say, what shall be our arms in this day's fight?" +"Till night," Cuchullin said, "the choice is thine, +For yester morn the choice was given to me." +"Let us," Ferdiah answered, "then resort +Unto our heavy, sharp, hard-smiting swords, +For we are nearer to the end to-day +Of this our fight, by hewing, than we were +On yesterday by thrusting of the spears." +"So let us do, indeed," Cuchullin said. +Then on their arms two long great shields they took, +And in their hands their sharp, hard-smiting swords. +Each hewed the other with such furious strokes +That pieces larger than an infant's head +Of four weeks' old were cut from out the thighs +And great broad shoulder-blades of each brave chief. +And thus they persevered from early morn +Till evening's close in hewing with the swords. +"Let us desist," at length Ferdiah said. +"Let us indeed desist, if the fit time +Hath come," Cuchullin said; and so they ceased. +From them they cast their arms into the hands +Of their two charioteers; and though that morn +Their meeting was of two high-spirited men, +Their separation, now that night had come, +Was of two men dispirited and sad. +Their horses were not in one field that night, +Their charioteers were warmed not at one fire. +That night they rested there, and in the morn +Ferdiah early rose and sought alone +The Ford of battle, for he knew that day +Would end the fight, and that the hour drew nigh +When one or both of them should surely fall. + +Then was it for the first time he put on +His battle suit of battle and of fight, +Before Cuchullin came unto the Ford. +That battle suit of battle and of fight +Was this: His apron of white silk, with fringe +Of spangled gold around it, he put on +Next his white skin. A leather apron then, +Well sewn, upon his body's lower part +He placed, and over it a mighty stone +As large as any mill-stone was secured. +His firm, deep, iron apron then he braced +Over the mighty stone--an apron made +Of iron purified from every dross-- +Such dread had he that day of the Gaebulg. +His crested helm of battle on his head +He last put on--a helmet all ablaze +From forty gems in each compartment set, +Cruan, and crystal, carbuncles of fire, +And brilliant rubies of the Eastern world. +In his right hand a mighty spear he seized, +Destructive, sharply-pointed, straight and strong:-- +On his left side his sword of battle swung, +Curved, with its hilt and pommel of red gold. +Upon the slope of his broad back he placed +His dazzling shield, around whose margin rose +Fifty huge bosses, each of such a size +That on it might a full-grown hog recline, +Exclusive of the larger central boss +That raised its prominent round of pure red gold. + +Full many noble, varied, wondrous feats +Ferdiah on that day displayed, which he +Had never learned at any tutor's hand, +From Uatha, or from Aifé, or from her, +Scatha, his early nurse in lonely Skye:-- +But which were all invented by himself +That day, to bring about Cuchullin's fall. + +Cuchullin to the Ford approached and saw +The many noble, varied, wondrous feats +Ferdiah on that day displayed on high. +"O Laegh, my friend," Cuchullin thus addressed +His charioteer, "I see the wondrous feats +Ferdiah doth display on high to-day: +All these on me in turn shall soon be tried, +And therefore note, that if it so should chance +I shall be first to yield, be sure to taunt, +Excite, revile me, and reproach me so, +That wrath and rage in me may rise the more:-- +If I prevail, then let thy words be praise, +Laud me, congratulate me, do thy best +To stimulate my courage to its height." +"It shall be done, Cuchullin," Laegh replied. + +Then was it that Cuchullin first assumed +His battle suit of battle: then he tried +Full many, various, noble, wondrous feats +He never learned from any tutor's hands, +From Uatha, or from Aifé, or from her, +Scatha, his early nurse in lonely Skye. +Ferdiah saw these various feats, and knew +Against himself they soon would be applied. + +"Say, O Ferdiah, to what arms shall we +Resort in this day's fight?" Cuchullin said. +Ferdiah answered, "Unto thee belongs +The choice of weapons now until the night." +"Let us then try the Ford Feat on this day," +Replied Cuchullin. "Let us then, indeed," +Rejoined Ferdiah, with a careless air +Consenting, though in truth it was to him +The cause of grief to say so, since he knew +That in the Ford Feat lay Cuchullin's strength, +And that he never failed to overthrow +Champion or hero in that last appeal. + +Great was the feat that was performed that day +In and beside the Ford: the mighty two, +The two great heroes, warriors, champions, chiefs +Of western Europe--the two open hands +Laden with gifts of the north-western world,-- +The two beloved pillars that upheld +The valour of the Gaels--the two strong keys +That kept the bravery of the Gaels secure-- +Thus to be brought together from afar +To fight each other through the meddling schemes +Of Ailill and his wily partner Mave. + From each to each the missive weapons flew +From dawn of early morning to mid-day; +And when mid-day had come, the ire of both +Became more furious, and they drew more near. +Then was it that Cuchullin made a spring +From the Ford's brink, and came upon the boss +Of the great shield Ferdiah's arm upheld, +That thus he might, above the broad shield's rim, +Strike at his head. Ferdiah with a touch +Of his left elbow, gave the shield a shake +And cast Cuchullin from him like a bird, +Back to the brink of the Ford. Again he sprang +From the Ford's brink, and came upon the boss +Of the great shield once more, to strike his head +Over the rim. Ferdiah with a stroke +Of his left knee made the great shield to ring, +And cast Cuchullin back upon the brink, +As if he only were a little child. + Laegh saw the act. "Alas! indeed," said Laegh, +"The warrior casts thee from him in the way +That an abandoned woman would her child. +He flings thee as a river flings its foam; +He grinds thee as a mill would grind fresh malt; +He fells thee as the axe does fell the oak; +He binds thee as the woodbine binds the tree; +He darts upon thee as a hawk doth dart +Upon small birds, so that from this hour forth +Until the end of time, thou hast no claim +Or title to be called a valorous man: +Thou little puny phantom form," said Laegh. + Then with the rapid motion of the wind, +The fleetness of a swallow on the wing, +The fierceness of a dragon, and the strength +Of a roused lion, once again up sprang +Cuchullin, high into the troubled air, +And lighted for the third time on the boss +Of the broad shield, to strike Ferdiah's head +Over the rim. The warrior shook the shield, +And cast Cuchullin mid-way in the Ford, +With such an easy effort that it seemed +As if he scarcely deigned to shake him off. + + Then, as he lay, a strange distortion came +Upon Cuchullin; as a bladder swells +Inflated by the breath, to such a size +And fulness did he grow, that he became +A fearful, many-coloured, wondrous Tuaig-- +Gigantic shape, as big as a man of the sea, +Or monstrous Fomor, so that now his form +In perfect height over Ferdiah stood. + +So close the fight was now, that their heads met +Above, their feet below, their arms half-way +Over the rims and bosses of their shields:-- +So close the fight was now, that from their rims +Unto their centres were their shields cut through, +And loosed was every rivet from its hold; +So close the fight was now, that their strong spears +Were turned and bent and shivered point and haft; +Such was the closeness of the fight they made +That the invisible and unearthly hosts +Of Spirits, Bocanachs and Bananachs, +And the wild wizard people of the glen +And of the air the demons, shrieked and screamed +From their broad shields' reverberating rim, +From their sword-hilts and their long-shafted spears: +Such was the closeness of the fight they made, +They forced the river from its natural course, +Out of its bed, so that it might have been +A couch whereon a king or queen might lie, +For not a drop of water it retained, +Except what came from the great tramp and splash +Of the two heroes fighting in its midst. +Such was the fierceness of the fight they waged, +That a wild fury seized upon the steeds +The Gaels had gathered with them; in affright +They burst their traces and their binding ropes, +Nay even their chains, and panting fled away. +The women, too, and youths, by equal fears +Inspired and scared, and all the varied crowd +Of followers and non-combatants who there +Were with the men of Erin, from the camp +South-westward broke away, and fled the Ford. + + At the edge-feat of swords they were engaged +When this surprise occurred, and it was then +Ferdiah an unguarded moment found +Upon Cuchullin, and he struck him deep, +Plunging his straight-edged sword up to the hilt +Within his body, till his girdle filled +With blood, and all the Ford ran red with gore +From the brave battle-warrior's veins outshed. +This could Cuchullin now no longer bear +Because Ferdiah still the unguarded spot +Struck and re-struck with quick, strong, stubborn strokes; +And so he called aloud to Laegh, the son +Of Riangabra, for the dread Gaebulg. +The manner of that fearful feat was this: +Adown the current was it sent, and caught +Between the toes: a single spear would make +The wound it made when entering, but once lodged +Within the body, thirty barbs outsprung, +So that it could not be withdrawn until +The body was cut open where it lay. +And when of the Gaebulg Ferdiah heard +The name, he made a downward stroke of his shield, +To guard his body. Then Cuchullin thrust +The unerring thorny spear straight o'er the rim, +And through the breast-plate of his coat of mail, +So that its farther half was seen beyond +His body, after passing through his heart. + + Ferdiah gave an upward stroke of his shield, +His breast to cover, though it was "the relief +After the danger." Then the servant set +The dread Gaebulg adown the flowing stream; +Cuchullin caught it firmly 'twixt his toes, +And from his foot a fearful cast he threw +Upon Ferdiah with unerring aim. +Swift through the well-wrought iron apron guard +It passed, and through the stone which was as large +As a huge mill-stone, cracking it in three, +And so into his body, every part +Of which was filled with the expanding barbs +"That is enough: by that one blow I fall," +Ferdiah said. "Indeed, I now may own +That I am sickly after thee this day, +Though it behoved not thee that I should fall +By stroke of thine;" and then these dying words +He added, tottering back upon the bank: + +FERDIAH. + +O Hound, so famed for deeds of valour doing, + 'Twas not thy place my death to give to me; +Thine is the fault of my most certain ruin, + And yet 'tis best to have my blood on thee. + +The wretch escapes not from his false position, + Who to the gap of his destruction goes; +Alas! my death-sick voice needs no physician, + My end hath come--my life's stream seaward flows. + +The natural ramparts of my breast are broken, + In its own gore my struggling heart is drowned:-- +Alas! I have not fought as I have spoken, + For thou hast killed me in the fight, O Hound! + +Cuchullin towards him ran, and his two arms +Clasping about him, lifted him and bore +The body in its armour and its clothes +Across the Ford unto the northern bank, +In order that the slain should thus be placed +Upon the north bank of the Ford, and not +Among the men of Erin, on the west. +Cuchullin laid Ferdiah down, and then +A sudden trance, a faintness on him came +When bending o'er the body of his friend. +Laegh saw the weakness, which was seen as well +By all the men of Erin, who arose +Upon the moment to attack him there. +"Good, O Cuchullin," Laegh exclaimed, "arise, +For all the men of Erin hither come. +It is no single combat they will give, +Since fair Ferdiah, Dáman's son, the son +Of Daré, by thy hands has here been slain." +"O servant, what availeth me to rise," +Cuchullin said, "since he hath fallen by me?" +And so the servant said, and so replied +Cuchullin, in his turn, unto the end; + +LAEGH. + +Arise, Emania's slaughter-hound, arise, + Exultant pride should be thy mood this day:-- +Ferdiah of the hosts before thee lies-- + Hard was the fight and dreadful was the fray. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Ah, what availeth me a hero's pride? + Madness and grief are in my heart and brain, +For the dear blood with which my hand is dyed-- + For the dear body that I here have slain. + +LAEGH. + +It suits thee ill to shed these idle tears, + Fitter by far for thee a fiercer mood-- +At thee he flung the flying pointed spears, + Malicious, wounding, dripping, dyed with blood. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Even though he left me crippled, maimed, and lame, + Even though I lost this arm that now but bleeds, +All would I bear, but now the fields of fame + No more shall see Ferdiah mount his steeds. + +LAEGH. + +More pleasing is the victory thou hast gained, + More pleasing to the women of Creeve Rue, +He to have died and thou to have remained, + To them the brave who fell here are too few. + +From that black day in brilliant Mave's long reign + Thou camest out of Cuailgné it has been-- +Her people slaughtered and her champions slain-- + A time of desolation to the queen. + +When thy great plundered flock was borne away, + Thou didst not lie with slumber-sealèd eyes,-- +Then 'twas thy boast to rise before the day:-- + Arise again, Emania's Hound, arise! + +So Laegh addressed the hero, though he seemed +To hear him not, but mourned his friend the more. +And thus he spoke these words, and thus he moaned: + + "Alas! Ferdiah, an unhappy chance +It was for thee that thou didst not consult +Some of the heroes who my prowess knew, +Before thou camest forth to meet me here, +In the hard battle combat by the Ford. +Unhappy was it that it was not Laegh, +The son of Riangabra, thou didst ask +About our fellow-pupilship--a bond +That might the unnatural combat so have stayed; +Unhappy was it that thou didst not ask +Honest advice from Fergus, son of Roy; +Or that it was not battle-winning, proud, +Exulting, ruddy Connall thou didst ask +About our fellow-pupilship of old. +For well do these men know there will not be +A being born among the Conacians who +Shall do the deeds of valour thou hast done +From this day forth until the end of time. +For if thou hadst consulted these brave men +About the places where the assemblies meet, +About the plightings and the broken vows +Uttered too oft by Connaught's fair-haired dames; +If thou hadst asked about the games and sports +Played with the targe and shield, the sword and spear, +If of backgammon or the moves of chess, +Or races with the chariots and the steeds, +They never would have found a champion's arm +As strong to pierce a hero's flesh as thine, +O rose-cloud hued Ferdiah! None to raise +The red-mouthed vulture's hoarse, inviting croak +Unto the many-coloured flocks, nor one +Who will for Croghan combat like to thee, +O red-cheeked son of Dáman!" Thus he said, +Then standing o'er Ferdiah he resumed: +"Oh! great has been the treachery and fraud +The men of Erin practised upon thee, +Ferdiah, thus to bring thee here to fight +With me, 'gainst whom it is no easy task +Upon the <i>Tain Bó Cuailgné</i> to contend." +And thus he said, and thus again he spake: + +CUCHULLIN. + +O my Ferdiah, O my friend, forgive: + 'Tis not my hand but treachery lays thee low:-- +Thou doomed to die and I condemned to live, + Both doomed for ever to be severed so! + +When we were far away in our young prime, + With Scatha, dread Buánnan's chosen friend, +A vow we made, that till the end of time, + With hostile arms we never should contend. + +Dear was thy lovely ruddiness to me, + Dear was thy gray-blue eye, so bright and clear,-- +Thy comely, perfect form how sweet to see! + Thy wisdom and thy eloquence how dear! + +In body-cutting combat, on the field + Of spears, when all is lost or all is won, +None braver ever yet held up a shield, + Than thou, Ferdiah, Dáman's ruddy son. + +Never since Aifé's only son I slew, + Not knowing who the gallant youth might be,-- +Ah! hapless deed, that still my heart doth rue!-- + None have I found, Ferdiah, like to thee. + +Thy dream it was to win fair Finavair, + From Mave her beauteous daughter's hand to gain; +As soon might'st thou in the wide fields of air + The glancing sunbeam's swift-winged flight restrain. + +He paused awhile, still gazing on the dead, +Then to his charioteer he spoke: "Friend Laegh, +Strip now Ferdiah, take his armour off, +That I may see the golden brooch of Mave, +For which he undertook the fatal fight." +Laegh took the armour then from off his breast, +And then Cuchullin saw the golden pin +That cost so dear, and then these words he spake: + +CUCHULLIN. + +Alas! O brooch of gold! + O chief, whose fame each poet knows, + O hero of stout slaughtering blows, +Thy arm was brave and bold. + +Thy yellow flowing hair, + Thy purple girdle's silken fold + Still even in death around thee rolled,-- +Thy twisted jewel rare. + +Thy noble beaming eyes, + Now closed in death, make mine grow dim, + Thy dazzling shield with golden rim, +Thy chess a king might prize. + +Oh! piteous to behold, + My fellow-pupil falls by me: + It was an end that should not be, +Alas! O brooch of gold! + +After another pause Cuchullin spoke:-- +"O Laegh, my friend, open Ferdiah now, +And from his body the Gaebulg take out, +For I without my weapon cannot be." + +Laegh then approached, and with a strong, sharp knife +Opened Ferdiah's body, and drew out +The dread Gaebulg. And when Cuchullin saw +His bloody weapon lying red beside +Ferdiah on the ground, again he thought +Of all their past career, and thus he said: + +CUCHULLIN. + +Sad is my fate that I should see thee lying, + Sad is the fate, Ferdiah, I deplore,-- +I with my weapon which thy blood is dyeing, + Thou on the ground a mass of streaming gore. + +When we were young, where Scatha's eye hath seen us + Fond fellow-pupils in her schools of Skye, +Never was heard the angry word between us, + Never was seen the angry spear to fly. + +Scatha, with words of eloquent persuading, + Roused us in many a glorious feat to join; +"Go," she exclaimed, "each other bravely aiding, + Go forth to battle with the dread Germoin." + +I to Ferdiah said: "Oh, come, my brother," + I to the ever-generous Luaigh said, +I to fair Baetan's son, and many another: + "Come, let us go and fight this foe so dread." + +Crossing the sea in ships of peaceful traders, + All of us came to lone Lind Formairt's lake, +With us we brought four hundred brave invaders + Out of the islands of the Athisech. + +I and Ferdiah were the first to enter, + Where he himself, the dread Germoin, held rule, +Rind, Nial's son, I clove from head to centre, + Ruad I killed, the son of Finniule. + +First on the shore, as swift our fleet ships flew there, + Bláth, son of Calba of red swords, was slain; +Struck by Ferdiah, Luaigh also slew there + Fierce rude Mugarne of the Torrian main. + +Bravely we battled against that court enchanted, + Full four times fifty heroes fell by me: +He, by their savage onslaught nothing daunted, + Slew ox-like monsters clambering from the sea. + +Wily Germoin, amid so many slaughters, + We took alive as trophy of the field, +Him o'er the broad, bright sea of spangled waters + We bore to Scatha of the bright broad shield. + +She, our famed tutoress, with kind endeavour, + Bound us from that day forth with heart and hand, +When met fair Elgga's tribes, that we should never + In hostile ranks before each other stand. + +Oh, day of woe! oh, day without a morrow! + Oh, fatal Tuesday morning, when the bud +Of his young life was scattered! Oh! the sorrow, + To give the friend I loved a drink of blood! + +Ah, if I saw thee among heroes lying + Dead on some glorious battlefield of Greece, +Soon would I follow thee, and proudly dying, + Sleep with my friend triumphant and at peace. + +We, Scatha's pupils, ah, how sad the story! + Thou to be dead and I to be alive: +I to be wounded here, all gashed and gory, + Thou never more thy chariot's steeds to drive. + +We, Scatha's pupils, ah! how sad the story; + Sad is the fate to which we both are led: +I to be wounded here, all gashed and gory, + And thou, alas! my friend, to lie here dead. + +We, Scatha's pupils, ah, how sad the story! + Sad is the deed and sorrowful the wrong: +Thou to be dead without thy meed of glory, + And I, oh! shame, to be alive and strong! + +Laegh interposed at length, and thus he said: +"Good, O Cuchullin, let us leave the Ford, +For long have we been here, by far too long." +"Let us then leave it now," Cuchullin said, +"O Laegh, my friend, but know that every fight +In which I hitherto have drawn my sword, +Has been but as a pastime and a sport +Compared with this one with Ferdiah fought." +And he was saying, and he spake these words: + +CUCHULLIN. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +Alike the teaching we received, +Alike were glad, alike were grieved, +Alike were we by Scatha's grace +Deemed worthy of the highest place. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +Alike our habits and our ways, +Alike our prowess and our praise, +Alike the trophies of the brave, +The glittering shields that Scatha gave. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +How dear to me, ah! who can know? +This golden pillar here laid low, +This mighty tree so strong and tall, +The chief, the champion of us all! + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +The lion rushing with a roar, +The wave that swallows up the shore, +When storm-winds blow and heaven is dim, +Could only be compared to him. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +Through me the friend I loved is dead, +A cloud is ever on my head-- +The mountain form, the giant frame, +Is now a shadow and a name. + +The countless legions of the <i>Tain,</i> +Those hands of mine have turned and slain: +Their men and steeds before me died, +Their flocks and herds on either side, +Though numerous were the hosts that came +From Croghan's Rath of fatal fame. + +Though less than half the foes I led, +Before me soon my foes lay dead: +Never to gory battle pressed, +Never was nursed on Bamba's breast, +Never from sons of kings there came +A hero of more glorious fame.[52] +</pre> +<p><sup>28</sup> This poem is now published for the first time + in its complete state.</p> +<p><sup>29</sup> Autumn; strictly the last night in October.  (See + O'Curry's + "Sick Bed of Cuchullin," <i>Atlantis,</i> i., p. 370).</p> +<p><sup>30</sup> Culann was the name of Conor MacNessa's smith, and it was + from him + that Setanta derived the name of Cu-Chulainn, or Culann's Hound.</p> +<p><sup>31</sup> Iorrus Domnann, now Erris, in the county of Mayo.  It + derived its + name ("Bay of the Domnanns," or "Deep-diggers,") from the party of the + Firbolgs, + so called, having settled there, under their chiefs Genann and + Rudhraighe.  + (See "The Fate of the Children of Lir," by O'Curry, <i>Atlantis,</i> iv., + p. 123; + Dr. Reeve's "Adamnan's Life of St. Columba," note 6, p. 31; O'Flaherty's + "Ogygia," p. 280; and Hardiman's "West Connaught," by O'Flaherty, published + by the Irish Archæological Society.)</p> +<p><sup>32</sup> The name of Scatha, the Amazonian instructress of Ferdiah and + Cuchullin, + is still preserved in Dun Sciath, in the island of Skye, where great + Cuchullin's + name and glory yet linger.  The Cuchullin Mountains, named after him, + "those thunder-smitten, jagged, Cuchullin peaks of Skye," the grandest + mountain + range in Great Britain, attract to that remote island of the Hebrides many + worshippers of the sublime and beautiful in nature, whose enjoyments would + be largely enhanced if they knew the heroic legends which are connected with + the glorious scenes they have travelled so far to witness.  Cuchullin is + one of the foremost characters in MacPherson's "Ossian," but the + quasi-translator + of Gaelic poems places him more than two centuries later than the period at + which he really lived.  (Lady Ferguson's "The Irish before the Conquest," + pp. 57, 58.)</p> +<p><sup>33</sup> For a description of this mysterious instrument, see Dr. + Todd's + "Additional Notes to the Irish version of Nennius," p. 12.</p> +<p><sup>34</sup> On the use of mail armour by the ancient Irish, see Dr. + O'Donovan's + "Introduction and Notes to the Battle of Magh-Rath," edited for the + Archæological Society.</p> +<p><sup>35</sup> For an interesting account of this sovereign, so famous in + Irish + story, see O'Curry's "Lectures," pp. 33, 34.  Her Father, according + to the chronology of the "Four Masters," is supposed to have reigned as + monarch of Erin about a century before the Christian era.  "Of all + the children of the monarch Eochaidh Fiedloch," says O'Donovan (cited in + O'Mahony's translation of Keating's "History," p. 276) "by far the most + celebrated was Meadbh or Mab, who is still remembered as the fairy queen + of the Irish, the 'Queen Mab' of Spenser."</p> +<p><sup>36</sup> "The belief that a <i>ferb</i> or ulcer could be produced," + says + Mr. Stokes, in his preface to 'Cormac's Glossary,' "forms the groundwork + of the tale of Nêde mac Adnae and his uncle, Caier."  The + names of the three blisters (Stain, Blemish, and Defect) are almost + identical with those Ferdiah is threatened with in the present poem.</p> +<p><sup>37</sup> A <i>cumal</i> was three cows, or their value.  On the + use of + chariots, see "The Sick Bed of Cuchullin," <i>Atlantis,</i> i., p. 375.</p> +<p><sup>38</sup> "The plains of Aie" (son of Allghuba the Druid), in + Roscommon.  + Here stood the palace of Cruachain (O'Curry's "Lectures," p. 35; + "Battle of Magh Leana," p. 61).</p> +<p><sup>39</sup> "Fair-brow" (O'Curry, "Exile of the Children of Uisnech," + <i>Atlantis,</i> ii., p. 386).</p> +<p><sup>40</sup> Here in the original there is a sudden change from prose to + verse.  "It is generally supposed that these stories were recited + by the ancient Irish poets for the amusement of their chieftains at + their public feasts, and that the portions given in metre were sung" + ("Battle of Magh Rath," p. 12).  The prose portions of this tale + are represented in the translation by blank verse, and the lyrical + portions by rhymed verse.</p> +<p><sup>41</sup> "Ugainè Mor exacted oaths by the sun and moon, the sea, + the dew, and colours . . . that the sovereignty of Erin should be + invested in his descendants for ever" (<i>Ib.</i> p. 3).</p> +<p><sup>42</sup> The high dignity of Domnal may be inferred from the + following lines, quoted from MacLenini, in the preface to + "Cormac's Glossary," p. 51:—<br /> +     "As blackbirds to swans, as an ounce to a mass of gold,<br /> +      As the forms of peasant women to the forms of + queens,<br /> +      As a king to Domnal . . .<br/> +      As a taper to a candle, so is a sword to <i>my</i> + sword."</p> +<p><sup>43</sup> She was the wife of Nêd, the war-god.  See + O'Donovan's + "Annals of the Four Masters," vol. i., p. 24.</p> +<p><sup>44</sup> Etán is said to have been <i>muime na filed,</i> nurse + of the + poets ("Three Irish Glossaries," preface, p. 33).</p> +<p><sup>45</sup> At Rathcroghan was the palace of the Kings of Connacht.</p> +<p><sup>46</sup> A name of Ireland ("Battle of Magh Leana," p. 79).</p> +<p><sup>47</sup> So the night before the battle of Magh Rath, "the monarch, + grandson of Ainmire, slept not, in consequence of the weight of the + battle and the anxiety of the conflict pressing on his mind; + for he was certain that his own beloved foster-son would, + on the morrow, meet his last fate."</p> +<p><sup>48</sup> In the "Battle of Magh Leana" these mysterious beings are + called "the Women of the Valley" (p. 120).</p> +<p><sup>49</sup> For this line and for many valuable suggestions throughout + the poem I am indebted to the deep poetical insight and correct + judgment of my friend, Aubrey de Vere.</p> +<p><sup>50</sup> "Derg Dian Scothach saw this order, and he put his + forefinger into the string of the spear."  "Fate of the + Children of Tuireann," by O'Curry, <i>Atlantis,</i> iv., p. 233.  + See also "Battle of Magh Rath," pp. 140, 141, 152.</p> +<p><sup>51</sup> Bregia was the ancient name of the plain watered by the + Boyne.</p> +<p><sup>52</sup> According to the marginal note of the learned editor, the + last four + lines appear to be a sort of epilogue, in which the poet extols the + victor.</p> +<p><a name="p083" id="p083"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN.</h3> +<h4><font size="-1">A.D.</font> 545.</h4> +</center> +<p>[We are informed that Brendan, hearing of the previous voyage +of his cousin, Barinthus, in the western ocean, and obtaining +an account from him of the happy isles he had landed on +in the far west, determined, under the strong desire of winning +heathen souls to Christ, to undertake a voyage of discovery +himself.  And aware that all along the western coast of Ireland +there were many traditions respecting the existence of a +western land, he proceeded to the islands of Arran, and there +remained for some time, holding communication with the +venerable St. Enda, and obtaining from him much information +relating to his voyage.  Having prosecuted his inquiries with +diligence, Brendan returned to his native Kerry; and from +a bay sheltered by the lofty mountain that is now known by +his name, he set sail for the Atlantic land; and, directing his +course towards the south-west, in order to meet the summer +solstice, or what we should call the tropic, after a long and +rough voyage, his little bark being well provisioned, he came +to summer seas, where he was carried along, without the aid +of sail or oar, for many a long day.  This, which it is to be +presumed was the great gulf-stream, brought his vessel to +shore somewhere about the Virginian capes, or where the +American coast tends eastward, and forms the New England +States.  Here landing, he and his companions marched steadily +into the interior for fifteen days, and then came to a large +river, flowing from east to west: this, evidently, was the river +Ohio.  And this the holy adventurer was about to cross, when +he was accosted by a person of noble presence—but whether a +real or visionary man does not appear—who told him he had +gone far enough; that further discoveries were reserved for +other men, who would, in due time, come and Christianise all +that pleasant land.  It is said he remained seven years away, +and returned to set up a college of three thousand monks, at +Clonfert.—<i>Cæsar Otway's Sketches in Erris and Tyrawley,</i> note, +pp. 98, 99.]</p> +<center> +<h4>T<font size="-1">HE</font> V<font size="-1">OCATION</font>.</h4> +</center> +<p>[When St. Brendan was an infant, says Colgan, he was +placed under the care of St. Ita, and remained with her five +years, after which period he was led away by Bishop Ercus in +order to receive from him the more solid instruction necessary +for his advancing years.  Brendan always retained the greatest +respect and affection for his foster-mother, and he is represented, +after his seven years' voyage, amusing St. Ita with an +account of his adventures in the ocean.]</p> +<pre> +O Ita, mother of my heart and mind-- + My nourisher, my fosterer, my friend, +Who taught me first to God's great will resigned, + Before his shining altar-steps to bend; +Who poured his word upon my soul like balm, + And on mine eyes what pious fancy paints-- +And on mine ear the sweetly swelling psalm, + And all the sacred knowledge of the saints; + +To whom but thee, dear mother, should be told + Of all the wonders I have seen afar?-- +Islands more green and suns of brighter gold + Than this dear land or yonder blazing star; +Of hills that bear the fruit-trees on their tops, + And seas that dimple with eternal smiles; +Of airs from heaven that fan the golden crops, + O'er the great ocean 'mid the blessed isles! + +Thou knowest, O my mother! how to thee + The blessed Ercus led me when a boy, +And how within thine arms and at thine knee, + I learned the lore that death cannot destroy; +And how I parted hence with bitter tears, + And felt, when turning from thy friendly door, +In the reality of ripening years, + My paradise of childhood was no more. + +I wept--but not with sin such tear-drops flow;-- + I sighed--for earthly things with heaven entwine; +Tears make the harvest of the heart to grow, + And love though human is almost divine. +The heart that loves not knows not how to pray; + The eye can never smile that never weeps: +'Tis through our sighs hope's kindling sunbeams play + And through our tears the bow of promise peeps. + +I grew to manhood by the western wave, + Among the mighty mountains on the shore: +My bed the rock within some natural cave, + My food whate'er the seas or seasons bore: +My occupation, morn and noon and night: + The only dream my hasty slumbers gave, +Was Time's unheeding, unreturning flight, + And the great world that lies beyond the grave. + +And thus, where'er I went, all things to me + Assumed the one deep colour of my mind; +Great nature's prayer rose from the murmuring sea, + And sinful man sighed in the wintry wind. +The thick-veiled clouds by shedding many a tear, + Like penitents, grew purified and bright, +And, bravely struggling through earth's atmosphere, + Passed to the regions of eternal light. + +I loved to watch the clouds now dark and dun, + In long procession and funeral line, +Pass with slow pace across the glorious sun, + Like hooded monks before a dazzling shrine. +And now with gentler beauty as they rolled + Along the azure vault in gladsome May, +Gleaming pure white, and edged with broidered gold, + Like snowy vestments on the Virgin's day. + +And then I saw the mighty sea expand + Like Time's unmeasured and unfathomed waves, +One with its tide-marks on the ridgy sand, + The other with its line of weedy graves; +And as beyond the outstretched wave of time, + The eye of Faith a brighter land may meet, +So did I dream of some more sunny clime + Beyond the waste of waters at my feet. + +Some clime where man, unknowing and unknown, + For God's refreshing word still gasps and faints; +Or happier rather some Elysian zone, + Made for the habitation of his saints: +Where Nature's love the sweat of labour spares, + Nor turns to usury the wealth it lends, +Where the rich soil spontaneous harvest bears, + And the tall tree with milk-filled clusters bends. + +The thought grew stronger with my growing days, + Even like to manhood's strengthening mind and limb, +And often now amid the purple haze + That evening breathed upon the horizon's rim-- +Methought, as there I sought my wished-for home, + I could descry amid the waters green, +Full many a diamond shrine and golden dome, + And crystal palaces of dazzling sheen. + +And then I longed, with impotent desire, + Even for the bow whereby the Python bled, +That I might send on dart of the living fire + Into that land, before the vision fled, +And thus at length fix the enchanted shore, + Hy-Brasail, Eden of the western wave! +That thou again wouldst fade away no more, + Buried and lost within thy azure grave. + +But angels came and whispered as I dreamt, + "This is no phantom of a frenzied brain-- +God shows this land from time to time to tempt + Some daring mariner across the main: +By thee the mighty venture must be made, + By thee shall myriad souls to Christ be won! +Arise, depart, and trust to God for aid!" + I woke, and kneeling, cried, "His will be done!" +</pre> +<center> +<h4>A<font size="-1">RA OF THE</font> + S<font size="-1">AINTS</font>.<sup>53</sup></h4> +</center> +<pre> +Hearing how blessed Enda lived apart, + Amid the sacred caves of Ara-mhor, +And how beneath his eye, spread like a chart, + Lay all the isles of that remotest shore; +And how he had collected in his mind + All that was known to man of the Old Sea,[54] +I left the Hill of Miracles[55] behind, + And sailed from out the shallow, sandy Leigh. + +Betwixt the Samphire Isles swam my light skiff, + And like an arrow flew through Fenor Sound, +Swept by the pleasant strand, and the tall cliff, + Whereon the pale rose amethysts are found. +Rounded Moyferta's rocky point, and crossed + The mouth of stream-streaked Erin's mightiest tide, +Whose troubled waves break o'er the City lost, + Chafed by the marble turrets that they hide. + +Beneath Ibrickan's hills, moory and tame, + And Inniscaorach's caves, so wild and dark, +I sailed along. The white-faced otter came, + And gazed in wonder on my floating bark. +The soaring gannet, perched upon my mast, + And the proud bird, that flies but o'er the sea, +Wheeled o'er my head: and the girrinna passed + Upon the branch of some life-giving tree.[56] + +Leaving the awful cliffs of Corcomroe, + I sought the rocky eastern isle, that bears +The name of blessed Coemhan, who doth show + Pity unto the storm-tossed seaman's prayers; +Then crossing Bealach-na-fearbach's treacherous sound, + I reached the middle isle, whose citadel +Looks like a monarch from its throne around; + And there I rested by St. Kennerg's well. + +Again I sailed, and crossed the stormy sound + That lies beneath Binn-Aite's rocky height-- +And there, upon the shore, the Saint I found + Waiting my coming though the tardy night. +He led me to his home beside the wave, + Where, with his monks, the pious father dwelled, +And to my listening ear he freely gave + The sacred knowledge that his bosom held. + +When I proclaimed the project that I nursed, + How 'twas for this that I his blessing sought, +An irrepressible cry of joy outburst + From his pure lips, that blessed me for the thought. +He said that he, too, had in visions strayed + Over the untracked ocean's billowy foam; +Bid me have hope, that God would give me aid, + And bring me safe back to my native home. + +Oft, as we paced that marble-covered land, + Would blessed Enda tell me wondrous tales-- +How, for the children of his love, the hand + Of the Omnipotent Father never fails-- +How his own sister,[57] standing by the side + Of the great sea, which bore no human bark, +Spread her light cloak upon the conscious tide, + And sailed thereon securely as an ark. + +And how the winds become the willing slaves + Of those who labour in the work of God; +And how Scothinus walked upon the waves, + Which seemed to him the meadow's verdant sod. +How he himself came hither with his flock, + To teach the infidels from Corcomroe, +Upon the floating breast of the hard rock, + Which lay upon the glistening sands below. + +But not alone of miracles and joys + Would Enda speak--he told me of his dream; +When blessed Kieran went to Clonmacnois, + To found the sacred churches by the stream-- +How he did weep to see the angels flee + Away from Arran as a place accursed; +And men tear up the island-shading tree, + Out of the soil from which it sprung at first. + +At length I tore me from the good man's sight, + And o'er Loch Lurgan's mouth[58] took my lone way, +Which, in the sunny morning's golden light, + Shone like the burning lake of Lassaræ; +Now 'neath heaven's frown--and now, beneath its smile-- + Borne on the tide, or driven before the gale; +And, as I passed MacDara's sacred Isle, + Thrice bowed my mast, and thrice let down my sail. + +Westward of Arran as I sailed away; + I saw the fairest sight eye can behold-- +Rocks which, illumined by the morning's ray, + Seemed like a glorious city built of gold. +Men moved along each sunny shining street, + Fires seemed to blaze, and curling smoke to rise, +When lo! the city vanished, and a fleet, + With snowy sails, rose on my ravished eyes. + +Thus having sought for knowledge and for strength, + For the unheard-of voyage that I planned, +I left these myriad isles, and turned at length + Southward my bark, and sought my native land. +There made I all things ready, day by day, + The wicker-boat, with ox-skins covered o'er-- +Chose the good monks companions of my way, + And waited for the wind to leave the shore. +</pre> +<center> +<h4>T<font size="-1">HE</font> V<font size="-1">OYAGE</font>.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +At length the long-expected morning came, + When from the opening arms of that wild bay, +Beneath the hill that bears my humble name, + Over the waves we took our untracked way; +Sweetly the morning lay on tarn and rill, + Gladly the waves played in its golden light, +And the proud top of the majestic hill + Shone in the azure air, serene and bright. + +Over the sea we flew that sunny morn, + Not without natural tears and human sighs: +For who can leave the land where he was born, + And where, perchance, a buried mother lies; +Where all the friends of riper manhood dwell, + And where the playmates of his childhood sleep: +Who can depart, and breathe a cold farewell, + Nor let his eyes their honest tribute weep? + +Our little bark, kissing the dimpled smiles + On ocean's cheek, flew like a wanton bird, +And then the land, with all its hundred isles, + Faded away, and yet we spoke no word. +Each silent tongue held converse with the past, + Each moistened eye looked round the circling wave, +And, save the spot where stood our trembling mast, + Saw all things hid within one mighty grave. + +We were alone, on the wide watery waste-- + Nought broke its bright monotony of blue, +Save where the breeze the flying billows chased, + Or where the clouds their purple shadows threw. +We were alone--the pilgrims of the sea-- + One boundless azure desert round us spread; +No hope, no trust, no strength, except in THEE, + Father, who once the pilgrim-people led. + +And when the bright-faced sun resigned his throne + Unto the Ethiop queen, who rules the night, +Who with her pearly crown and starry zone, + Fills the dark dome of heaven with silvery light;-- +As on we sailed, beneath her milder sway, + And felt within our hearts her holier power, +We ceased from toil, and humbly knelt to pray, + And hailed with vesper hymns the tranquil hour! + +For then, indeed, the vaulted heavens appeared + A fitting shrine to hear their Maker's praise, +Such as no human architect has reared, + Where gems, and gold, and precious marbles blaze. +What earthly temple such a roof can boast?-- + What flickering lamp with the rich starlight vies, +When the round moon rests, like the sacred Host, + Upon the azure altar of the skies? + +We breathed aloud the Christian's filial prayer, + Which makes us brothers even with the Lord; +Our Father, cried we, in the midnight air, + In heaven and earth be thy great name adored; +May thy bright kingdom, where the angels are, + Replace this fleeting world, so dark and dim. +And then, with eyes fixed on some glorious star, + We sang the Virgin-Mother's vesper hymn! + +Hail, brightest star! that o'er life's troubled sea + Shines pitying down from heaven's elysian blue! +Mother and Maid, we fondly look to thee, + Fair gate of bliss, where heaven beams brightly through. +Star of the morning! guide our youthful days, + Shine on our infant steps in life's long race, +Star of the evening! with thy tranquil rays, + Gladden the aged eyes that seek thy face. + +Hail, sacred Maid! thou brighter, better Eve, + Take from our eyes the blinding scales of sin; +Within our hearts no selfish poison leave, + For thou the heavenly antidote canst win. +O sacred Mother! 'tis to thee we run-- + Poor children, from this world's oppressive strife; +Ask all we need from thy immortal Son, + Who drank of death, that we might taste of life. + +Hail, spotless Virgin! mildest, meekest maid-- + Hail! purest Pearl that time's great sea hath borne-- +May our white souls, in purity arrayed, + Shine, as if they thy vestal robes had worn; +Make our hearts pure, as thou thyself art pure, + Make safe the rugged pathway of our lives, +And make us pass to joys that will endure + When the dark term of mortal life arrives.[59] + +'Twas thus, in hymns, and prayers, and holy psalms, + Day tracking day, and night succeeding night, +Now driven by tempests, now delayed by calms, + Along the sea we winged our varied flight. +Oh! how we longed and pined for sight of land! + Oh! how we sighed for the green pleasant fields! +Compared with the cold waves, the barest strand-- + The bleakest rock--a crop of comfort yields. + +Sometimes, indeed, when the exhausted gale, + In search of rest, beneath the waves would flee, +Like some poor wretch who, when his strength doth fail, + Sinks in the smooth and unsupporting sea: +Then would the Brothers draw from memory's store + Some chapter of life's misery or bliss, +Some trial that some saintly spirit bore, + Or else some tale of passion, such as this: +</pre> +<center> +<h4>T<font size="-1">HE</font> B<font size="-1">URIED</font> + C<font size="-1">ITY</font>.</h4> +</center> +<p>[The peasants who live near the mouth of the Shannon +point to a part of the river within the headlands over which +the tides rush with extraordinary rapidity and violence.  They +say it is the site of a lost city, long buried beneath the waves.—See +Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii. p. 436.]</p> +<pre> +Beside that giant stream that foams and swells + Betwixt Hy-Conaill and Moyarta's shore, +And guards the isle where good Senanus dwells, + A gentle maiden dwelt in days of yore. +She long has passed out of Time's aching womb, + And breathes Eternity's favonian air; +Yet fond Tradition lingers o'er her tomb, + And paints her glorious features as they were:-- + +Her smile was Eden's pure and stainless light, + Which never cloud nor earthly vapour mars; +Her lustrous eyes were like the noon of night-- + Black, but yet brightened by a thousand stars; +Her tender form, moulded in modest grace, + Shrank from the gazer's eye, and moved apart; +Heaven shone reflected in her angel face, + And God reposed within her virgin heart. + +She dwelt in green Moyarta's pleasant land, + Beneath the graceful hills of Clonderlaw,-- +Sweet sunny hills, whose triple summits stand, + One vast tiara over stream and shaw. +Almost in solitude the maiden grew, + And reached her early budding woman's prime; +And all so noiselessly the swift time flew, + She knew not of the name or flight of Time. + +And thus, within her modest mountain nest, + This gentle maiden nestled like a dove, +Offering to God from her pure innocent breast + The sweet and silent incense of her love. +No selfish feeling nor presumptuous pride + In her calm bosom waged unnatural strife; +Saint of her home and hearth, she sanctified + The thousand trivial common cares of life. + +Upon the opposite shore there dwelt a youth, + Whose nature's woof was woven of good and ill-- +Whose stream of life flowed to the sea of truth, + But in a devious course, round many a hill-- +Now lingering through a valley of delight, + Where sweet flowers bloomed, and summer songbirds sung, +Now hurled along the dark, tempestuous night, + With gloomy, treeless mountains overhung. + +He sought the soul of Beauty throughout space, + Knowledge he tracked through many a vanished age: +For one he scanned fair Nature's radiant face, + And for the other, Learning's shrivelled page. +If Beauty sent some fair apostle down, + Or Knowledge some great teacher of her lore, +Bearing the wreath of rapture and the crown, + He knelt to love, to learn, and to adore. + +Full many a time he spread his little sail, + How rough the river, or how dark the skies, +Gave his light corrach to the angry gale, + And crossed the stream to gaze on Ethna's eyes. +As yet 'twas worship, more than human love, + That hopeless adoration that we pay +Unto some glorious planet throned above, + Through severed from its crystal sphere for aye. + +But warmer love an easy conquest won, + The more he came to green Moyarta's bowers; +Even as the earth, by gazing on the sun, + In summer-time puts forth her myriad flowers. +The yearnings of his heart--vague, undefined-- + Wakened and solaced by ideal gleams, +Took everlasting shape, and intertwined + Around this incarnation of his dreams. + +Some strange fatality restrained his tongue-- + He spoke not of the love that filled his breast; +The thread of hope, on which his whole life hung, + Was far too weak to bear so strong a test. +He trusted to the future--time, or chance-- + His constant homage and assiduous care; +Preferred to dream, and lengthen out his trance, + Rather than wake to knowledge and despair. + +And thus she knew not, when the youth would look + Upon some pictured chronicle of eld, +In every blazoned letter of the book + One fairest face was all that he beheld: +And where the limner, with consummate art, + Drew flowing lines and quaint devices rare, +The wildered youth, by looking from the heart, + Saw nought but lustrous eyes and waving hair. + +He soon was startled from his dreams, for now-- + 'Twas said, obedient to a heavenly call-- +His life of life would take the vestal vow, + In one short month, within a convent's wall. +He heard the tidings with a sickening fear, + But quickly had the sudden faintness flown, +And vowed, though heaven or hell should interfere, + Ethna--his Ethna--should be his alone! + +He sought his boat, and snatched the feathery oar-- + It was the first and brightest morn of May: +The white-winged clouds, that sought the northern shore, + Seemed but Love's guides, to point him out the way. +The great old river heaved its mighty heart, + And, with a solemn sigh, went calmly on; +As if of all his griefs it felt a part, + But know they should be borne, and so had gone. + +Slowly his boat the languid breeze obeyed, + Although the stream that that light burden bore +Was like the level path the angels made, + Through the rough sea, to Arran's blessed shore; +And from the rosy clouds the light airs fanned, + And from the rich reflection that they gave, +Like good Scothinus, had he reached his hand, + He might have plucked a garland from the wave. + +And now the noon in purple splendour blazed, + The gorgeous clouds in slow procession filed; +The youth leaned o'er with listless eyes and gazed + Down through the waves on which the blue heavens smiled: +What sudden fear his gasping breath doth drown! + What hidden wonder fires his startled eyes! +Down in the deep, full many a fathom down, + A great and glorious city buried lies. + +Not like those villages with rude-built walls, + That raise their humble roofs round every coast, +But holding marble basilics and halls, + Such as imperial Rome herself might boast. +There was the palace and the poor man's home, + And upstart glitter and old-fashioned gloom, +The spacious porch, the nicely rounded dome, + The hero's column, and the martyr's tomb. + +There was the cromleach with its circling stones; + There the green rath and the round narrow tower; +There was the prison whence the captive's groans + Had many a time moaned in the midnight hour. +Beneath the graceful arch the river flowed, + Around the walls the sparkling waters ran, +The golden chariot rolled along the road-- + All, all was there except the face of man. + +The wondering youth had neither thought nor word, + He felt alone the power and will to die; +His little bark seemed like an outstretched bird, + Floating along that city's azure sky. +It joyed that youth the battle's storm to brave, + And yet he would have perished with affright, +Had not the breeze, rippling the lucid wave, + Concealed the buried city from his sight. + +He reached the shore; the rumour was too true-- + Ethna--his Ethna--would be God's alone +In one brief month; for which the maid withdrew, + To seek for strength before his blessed throne. +Was it the fire that on his bosom preyed, + Or the temptation of the Fiend abhorred, +That made him vow to snatch the white-veiled maid + Even from the very altar of her Lord? + +The first of June, that festival of flowers, + Came, like a goddess, o'er the meadows green! +And all the children of the spring-tide showers + Rose from their grassy beds to hail their Queen. +A song of joy, a pæan of delight, + Rose from the myriad life in the tall grass, +When the young Dawn, fresh from the sleep of night, + Glanced at her blushing face in Ocean's glass. + +Ethna awoke--a second--brighter dawn-- + Her mother's fondling voice breathed in her ear; +Quick from her couch she started as a fawn + Bounds from the heather when her dam is near. +Each clasped the other in a long embrace-- + Each know the other's heart did beat and bleed-- +Each kissed the warm tears from the other's face, + And gave the consolation she did need. + +Oh! bitterest sacrifice the heart can make-- + That of a mother of her darling child-- +That of a child, who, for her Saviour's sake, + Leaves the fond face that o'er her cradle smiled. +They who may think that God doth never need + So great, so sad a sacrifice as this, +While they take glory in their easier creed, + Will feel and own the sacrifice it is. + +All is prepared--the sisters in the choir-- + The mitred abbot on his crimson throne-- +The waxen tapers, with their pallid fire + Poured o'er the sacred cup and altar-stone-- +The upturned eyes, glistening with pious tears-- + The censer's fragrant vapour floating o'er; +Now all is hushed, for, lo! the maid appears, + Entering with solemn step the sacred door. + +She moved as moves the moon, radiant and pale, + Through the calm night, wrapped in a silvery cloud; +The jewels of her dress shone through her veil, + As shine the stars through their thin vaporous shroud; +The brighter jewels of her eyes were hid + Beneath their smooth white caskets arching o'er, +Which, by the trembling of each ivory lid, + Seemed conscious of the treasures that they bore. + +She reached the narrow porch and the tall door, + Her trembling foot upon the sill was placed-- +Her snowy veil swept the smooth-sanded floor-- + Her cold hands chilled the bosom they embraced. +Who is this youth, whose forehead, like a book, + Bears many a deep-traced character of pain? +Who looks for pardon as the damned may look-- + That ever pray, and know they pray in vain. + +'Tis he, the wretched youth--the Demon's prey; + One sudden bound, and he is at her side-- +One piercing shriek, and she has swooned away, + Dim are her eyes, and cold her heart's warm tide. +Horror and terror seize the startled crowd; + The sinewy hands are nerveless with affright; +When, as the wind beareth a summer cloud, + The youth bears off the maiden from their sight. + +Close to the place the stream rushed roaring by, + His little boat lay moored beneath the bank, +Hid from the shore, and from the gazer's eye, + By waving reeds and water-willows dank. +Hither, with flying feet and glowing brow, + He fled, as quick as fancies in a dream-- +Placed the insensate maiden in the prow-- + Pushed from the shore, and gained the open stream. + +Scarce had he left the river's foamy edge, + When sudden darkness fell on hill and plain; +The angry sun, shocked at the sacrilege, + Fled from the heavens with all his golden train; +The stream rushed quicker, like a man afeared; + Down swept the storm and clove its breast of green, +And though the calm and brightness reappeared + The youth and maiden never more were seen. + +Whether the current in its strong arms bore + Their bark to green Hy-Brasail's fairy halls, +Or whether, as is told along that shore, + They sunk within the buried city's walls; +Whether through some Elysian clime they stray, + Or o'er their whitened bones the river rolls;-- +Whate'er their fate, my brothers, let us pray + To God for peace and pardon to their souls. + +Such was the brother's tale of earthly love-- + He ceased, and sadly bowed his reverend head: +For us, we wept, and raised our eyes above, + And sang the <i>De Profundis</i> for the dead. +A freshening breeze played on our moistened cheeks, + The far horizon oped its walls of light, +And lo! with purple hills and sun-bright peaks + A glorious isle gleamed on our gladdened sight, +</pre> +<center> +<h4>T<font size="-1">HE</font> P<font size="-1">ARADISE OF</font> + B<font size="-1">IRDS</font>.</h4> +</center> +<p>"Post resurrectionis diem dominicæ navigabitis ad altam +insulam ad occidentalem plagam, quæ vocatur + P<font size="-2">ARADISUS</font> +A<font size="-2">VIUM</font>."—"Life of St. Brendan," in Capgrave, + fol. 45.</p> +<pre> +It was the fairest and the sweetest scene-- + The freshest, sunniest, smiling land that e'er +Held o'er the waves its arms of sheltering green + Unto the sea and storm-vexed mariner:-- +No barren waste its gentle bosom scarred, + Nor suns that burn, nor breezes winged with ice, +Nor jagged rocks (Nature's grey ruins) marred + The perfect features of that Paradise. + +The verdant turf spreads from the crystal marge + Of the clear stream, up the soft-swelling hill, +Rose-bearing shrubs and stately cedars large + All o'er the land the pleasant prospect fill. +Unnumbered birds their glorious colours fling + Among the boughs that rustle in the breeze, +As if the meadow-flowers had taken wing + And settled on the green o'er-arching trees. + +Oh! Ita, Ita, 'tis a grievous wrong, + That man commits who uninspired presumes +To sing the heavenly sweetness of their song-- + To paint the glorious tinting of their plumes-- +Plumes bright as jewels that from diadems + Fling over golden thrones their diamond rays-- +Bright, even as bright as those three mystic gems, + The angel bore thee in thy childhood's days.[60] + +There dwells the bird that to the farther west + Bears the sweet message of the coming spring;[61] +June's blushing roses paint his prophet breast, + And summer skies gleam from his azure wing. +While winter prowls around the neighbouring seas, + The happy bird dwells in his cedar nest, +Then flies away, and leaves his favourite trees + Unto this brother of the graceful crest.[62] + +Birds that with us are clothed in modest brown, + There wear a splendour words cannot express; +The sweet-voiced thrush beareth a golden crown,[63] + And even the sparrow boasts a scarlet dress.[64] +There partial nature fondles and illumes + The plainest offspring that her bosom bears; +The golden robin flies on fiery plumes,[65] + And the small wren a purple ruby wears.[66] + +Birds, too, that even in our sunniest hours, + Ne'er to this cloudy land one moment stray, +Whose brilliant plumes, fleeting and fair as flowers, + Come with the flowers, and with the flowers decay.[67] +The Indian bird, with hundred eyes, that throws + From his blue neck the azure of the skies, +And his pale brother of the northern snows, + Bearing white plumes, mirrored with brilliant eyes.[68] + +Oft in the sunny mornings have I seen + Bright-yellow birds, of a rich lemon hue, +Meeting in crowds upon the branches green, + And sweetly singing all the morning through.[69] +And others, with their heads greyish and dark, + Pressing their cinnamon cheeks to the old trees, +And striking on the hard, rough, shrivelled bark, + Like conscience on a bosom ill at ease.[70] + +And diamond birds chirping their single notes, + Now 'mid the trumpet-flower's deep blossoms seen, +Now floating brightly on with fiery throats, + Small-winged emeralds of golden green;[71] +And other larger birds with orange cheeks, + A many-colour-painted chattering crowd, +Prattling for ever with their curved beaks, + And through the silent woods screaming aloud.[72] + +Colour and form may be conveyed in words, + But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains +That from the throats of these celestial birds + Rang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains. +There was the meadow-lark, with voice as sweet, + But robed in richer raiment than our own; +And as the moon smiled on his green retreat, + The painted nightingale sang out alone.[73] + +Words cannot echo music's winged note, + One bird alone exhausts their utmost power; +'Tis that strange bird whose many-voicéd throat + Mocks all his brethren of the woodland bower; +To whom indeed the gift of tongues is given, + The musical rich tongues that fill the grove, +Now like the lark dropping his notes from heaven, + Now cooing the soft earth-notes of the dove.[74] + +Oft have I seen him, scorning all control, + Winging his arrowy flight rapid and strong, +As if in search of his evanished soul, + Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song; +And as I wandered on, and upward gazed, + Half lost in admiration, half in fear, +I left the brothers wondering and amazed, + Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near. + +Was it a revelation or a dream?-- + That these bright birds as angels once did dwell +In heaven with starry Lucifer supreme, + Half sinned with him, and with him partly fell; +That in this lesser paradise they stray. + Float through its air, and glide its streams along, +And that the strains they sing each happy day + Rise up to God like morn and even song.[75] +</pre> +<center> +<h4>T<font size="-1">HE</font> P<font size="-1">ROMISED</font> + L<font size="-1">AND</font>.</h4> +</center> +<p>[The earlier stanzas of this description of Paradise are +principally founded upon the Anglo-Saxon version of the poem +<i>De Phenice,</i> ascribed to Lactantius, and which is at +least as old as the earlier part of the eleventh century.]</p> +<pre> +As on this world the young man turns his eyes, + When forced to try the dark sea of the grave, +Thus did we gaze upon that Paradise, + Fading, as we were borne across the wave. +And, as a brighter world dawns by degrees + Upon Eternity's serenest strand, +Thus, having passed through dark and gloomy seas, + At length we reached the long-sought Promised Land. + +The wind had died upon the Ocean's breast, + When, like a silvery vein through the dark ore, +A smooth bright current, gliding to the west, + Bore our light bark to that enchanted shore. +It was a lovely plain--spacious and fair, + And bless'd with all delights that earth can hold, +Celestial odours filled the fragrant air + That breathed around that green and pleasant wold. + +There may not rage of frost, nor snow, nor rain, + Injure the smallest and most delicate flower, +Nor fall of hail wound the fair, healthful plain, + Nor the warm weather, nor the winter's shower. +That noble land is all with blossoms flowered, + Shed by the summer breezes as they pass; +Less leaves than blossoms on the trees are showered, + And flowers grow thicker in the fields than grass. + +Nor hills, nor mountains, there stand high and steep, + Nor stony cliffs tower o'er the frightened waves, +Nor hollow dells, where stagnant waters sleep, + Nor hilly risings, nor dark mountain caves; +Nothing deformed upon its bosom lies, + Nor on its level breast rests aught unsmooth, +But the noble filed flourishes 'neath the skies, + Blooming for ever in perpetual youth. + +That glorious land stands higher o'er the sea, + By twelve-fold fathom measure, than we deem +The highest hills beneath the heavens to be. + There the bower glitters, and the green woods gleam. +All o'er that pleasant plain, calm and serene, + The fruits ne'er fall, but, hung by God's own hand, +Cling to the trees that stand for ever green, + Obedient to their Maker's first command. + +Summer and winter are the woods the same, + Hung with bright fruits and leaves that never fade; +Such will they be, beyond the reach of flame, + Till Heaven, and Earth, and Time, shall have decayed. +Here might Iduna in her fond pursuit, + As fabled by the northern sea-born men, +Gather her golden and immortal fruit, + That brings their youth back to the gods again. + +Of old, when God, to punish sinful pride, + Sent round the deluged world the ocean flood, +When all the earth lay 'neath the vengeful tide, + This glorious land above the waters stood. +Such shall it be at last, even as at first, + Until the coming of the final doom, +When the dark chambers--men's death homes shall burst, + And man shall rise to judgment from the tomb. + +There there is never enmity, nor rage, + Nor poisoned calumny, nor envy's breath, +Nor shivering poverty, nor decrepit age, + Nor loss of vigour, nor the narrow death; +Nor idiot laughter, nor the tears men weep, + Nor painful exile from one's native soil, +Nor sin, nor pain, nor weariness, nor sleep, + Nor lust of riches, nor the poor man's toil. + +There never falls the rain-cloud as with us, + Nor gapes the earth with the dry summer's thirst, +But liquid streams, wondrously curious, + Out of the ground with fresh fair bubbling burst. +Sea-cold and bright the pleasant waters glide + Over the soil, and through the shady bowers; +Flowers fling their coloured radiance o'er the tide, + And the bright streams their crystal o'er the flowers. + +Such was the land for man's enjoyment made, + When from this troubled life his soul doth wend: +Such was the land through which entranced we strayed, + For fifteen days, nor reached its bound nor end. +Onward we wandered in a blissful dream, + Nor thought of food, nor needed earthly rest; +Until, at length, we reached a mighty stream, + Whose broad bright waves flowed from the east to west. + +We were about to cross its placid tide, + When, lo! an angel on our vision broke, +Clothed in white, upon the further side + He stood majestic, and thus sweetly spoke: +"Father, return, thy mission now is o'er; + God, who did call thee here, now bids thee go, +Return in peace unto thy native shore, + And tell the mighty secrets thou dost know. + +"In after years, in God's own fitting time, + This pleasant land again shall re-appear; +And other men shall preach the truths sublime, + To the benighted people dwelling here. +But ere that hour this land shall all be made, + For mortal man, a fitting, natural home, +Then shall the giant mountain fling its shade, + And the strong rock stem the white torrent's foam. + +"Seek thy own isle--Christ's newly-bought domain, + Which Nature with an emerald pencil paints: +Such as it is, long, long shall it remain, + The school of Truth, the College of the Saints, +The student's bower, the hermit's calm retreat, + The stranger's home, the hospitable hearth, +The shrine to which shall wander pilgrim feet + From all the neighbouring nations of the earth. + +"But in the end upon that land shall fall + A bitter scourge, a lasting flood of tears, +When ruthless tyranny shall level all + The pious trophies of its early years: +Then shall this land prove thy poor country's friend, + And shine a second Eden in the west; +Then shall this shore its friendly arms extend, + And clasp the outcast exile to its breast." + +He ceased and vanished from our dazzled sight, + While harps and sacred hymns rang sweetly o'er +For us again we winged our homeward flight + O'er the great ocean to our native shore; +And as a proof of God's protecting hand, + And of the wondrous tidings that we bear, +The fragrant perfume of that heavenly land + Clings to the very garments that we wear.[76] +</pre> +<p><sup>53</sup> So called from the + number of holy men and women formerly inhabiting it.</p> +<p><sup>54</sup> The Atlantic was so named by + the ancient Irish.</p> +<p><sup>55</sup> Ardfert.</p> +<p><sup>56</sup> The puffin + (Anas leucopsis), called in Irish <i>girrinna.</i>  It was the + popular belief that these birds grew out of driftwood.</p> +<p><sup>57</sup> St. Fanchea.</p> +<p><sup>58</sup> Galway Bay.</p> +<p><sup>59</sup> These stanzas are a paraphrase of the hymn "Ave Maris + Stella."</p> +<p><sup>60</sup> An angel was said to have presented her with three + precious stones, which, he explained, were emblematic of the + Blessed Trinity, by whom she would be always visited and + protected.</p> +<p><sup>61</sup> The blue bird.</p> +<p><sup>62</sup> The cedar bird.</p> +<p><sup>63</sup> The golden-crowned thrush.</p> +<p><sup>64</sup> The scarlet sparrow or tanager.</p> +<p><sup>65</sup> The Baltimore oriole or fire-bird.</p> +<p><sup>66</sup> The ruby-crowned wren.</p> +<p><sup>67</sup> Peacocks.</p> +<p><sup>68</sup> The white peacock.</p> +<p><sup>69</sup> The yellow bird or goldfinch.</p> +<p><sup>70</sup> The gold-winged woodpecker.</p> +<p><sup>71</sup> Humming birds.</p> +<p><sup>72</sup> The Carolina parrot.</p> +<p><sup>73</sup> The grosbeak or red bird, sometimes called + the Virginia nightingale.</p> +<p><sup>74</sup> The mocking-bird.</p> +<p><sup>75</sup> See the "Lyfe of Saynt Brandon" in the Golden Legend, + published by Wynkyn de Worde, 1483; fol. 357.</p> +<p><sup>76</sup> "Nonne cognoscitis in odore vestimentorum nostrorum + quod in Paradiso Domini fuimus."—<i>Colgan.</i></p> +<p><a name="p106" id="p106"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE FORAY OF CON O'DONNELL.</h3> +<h4><font size="-1">A.D.</font> 1495.</h4> +</center> +<p>[Con, the son of Hugh Roe O'Donnell, with his small-powerful +force,—and the reason Con's force was called the +small-powerful force was, because he was always in the habit +of mustering a force which did not exceed twelve score of +well-equipped and experienced battle-axe-men, and sixty chosen +active horsemen, fit for battle,—marched with the forementioned +force to the residence of MacJohn of the Glynnes (in +the county of Antrim); for Con had been informed that +MacJohn had in possession the finest woman, steed, and +hound, of any other person in his neighbourhood.  He sent a +messenger for the steed before that time, and was refused, +although Con had, at the same time, promised it to one of his +own people.  Con did not delay, and got over every difficult +pass with his small-powerful force, without battle or obstruction, +until he arrived in the night at the house of MacJohn, +whom he, in the first place, took prisoner, and his wife, steed, +and hound, and all his property, were under Con's control, for +he found the same steed, with sixteen others, in the town on +that occasion.  All the Glynnes were plundered on the following +day by Con's people, but he afterwards, however, made +perfect restitution of all property, to whomsoever it belonged, +to MacJohn's wife, and he set her husband free to her after he +had passed the Bann westward.  He brought with him the +steed and great booty and spoils, into Tirhugh, and ordered +the cattle-prey to be let out on the pasturage.—<i>Annals of the +Four Masters,</i> translated by Owen Connellan, Esq., p. 331-2.  +This poem, founded upon the foregoing passage (and in which +the hero acts with more generosity than the Annals warrant) +was written and published in the Dublin University Magazine +before the appearance of Mr. O'Donovan's "Annals of the +Kingdom of Ireland,"—the magnificent work published in +1848 by Messrs. Hodges and Smith, of this city.  For Mr. +O'Donovan's version of this passage, which differs from that of +the former translator in two or three important particulars, see +the second volume of his work, p. 1219.  The principal castle +of the O'Donnell's was at Donegal.  The building, of which +some portions still exist, was erected in the twelfth century.  +The banqueting-hall, which is the scene of the opening portion +of this ballad, is still preserved, and commands some beautiful +views.]</p> +<pre> +The evening shadows sweetly fall +Along the hills of Donegal, +Sweetly the rising moonbeams play +Along the shores of Inver Bay,[77] +As smooth and white Lough Eask[78] expands +As Rosapenna's[79] silvery sands, +And quiet reigns all o'er thy fields, +Clan Dalaigh[80] of the golden shields. + +The fairy gun[81] is heard no more +To boom within the cavern'd shore, +With smoother roll the torrents flow +Adown the rocks of Assaroe;[82] +Securely, till the coming day, +The red deer couch in far Glenvay, +And all is peace and calm around +O'Donnell's castled moat and mound. + +But in the hall there feast to-night +Full many a kern and many a knight, +And gentle dames, and clansmen strong, +And wandering bards, with store of song: +The board is piled with smoking kine, +And smooth bright cups of Spanish wine, +And fish and fowl from stream and shaw, +And fragrant mead and usquebaugh. + +The chief is at the table's head-- +'Tis Con, the son of Hugh the Red-- +The heir of Conal Golban's line;[83] +With pleasure flushed, with pride and wine, +He cries, "Our dames adjudge it wrong, +To end our feast without the song; +Have we no bard the strain to raise? +No foe to taunt, no maid to praise? + +"Where beauty dwells the bard should dwell, +What sweet lips speak the bard should tell; +'Tis he should look for starry eyes, +And tell love's watchers where they rise: +To-night, if lips and eyes could do, +Bards were not wanting in Tirhugh; +For where have lips a rosier light, +And where are eyes more starry bright?" + +Then young hearts beat along the board, +To praise the maid that each adored, +And lips as young would fain disclose +The love within; but one arose, +Gray as the rocks beside the main,-- +Gray as the mist upon the plain,-- +A thoughtful, wandering, minstrel man, +And thus the aged bard began:-- + +"O Con, benevolent hand of peace! + O tower of valour firm and true! +Like mountain fawns, like snowy fleece, + Move the sweet maidens of Tirhugh. +Yet though through all thy realm I've strayed, + Where green hills rise and white waves fall, +I have not seen so fair a maid + As once I saw by Cushendall.[84] + +"O Con, thou hospitable Prince! + Thou, of the open heart and hand, +Full oft I've seen the crimson tints + Of evening on the western land. +I've wandered north, I've wandered south, + Throughout Tirhugh in hut and hall, +But never saw so sweet a mouth + As whispered love by Cushendall. + +"O Con, munificent gifts! + I've seen the full round harvest moon +Gleam through the shadowy autumn drifts + Upon thy royal rock of Doune.[85] +I've seen the stars that glittering lie + O'er all the night's dark mourning pall, +But never saw so bright an eye + As lit the glens of Cushendall. + +"I've wandered with a pleasant toil, + And still I wander in my dreams; +Even from the white-stoned beach, Loch Foyle, + To Desmond of the flowing streams. +I've crossed the fair green plains of Meath, + To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall; +But never saw such pearly teeth, + As her's that smiled by Cushendall. + +"O Con! thou'rt rich in yellow gold, + Thy fields are filled with lowing kine, +Within they castles wealth untold, + Within thy harbours fleets of wine; +But yield not, Con, to worldly pride + Thou may'st be rich, but hast not all; +Far richer he who for his bride + Has won fair Anne of Cushendall. + +"She leans upon a husband's arm, + Surrounded by a valiant clan, +In Antrim's Glynnes, by fair Glenarm, + Beyond the pearly-paven Bann; +'Mid hazel woods no stately tree + Looks up to heaven more graceful-tall, +When summer clothes its boughs, than she, + MacDonnell's wife of Cushendall!" + +The bard retires amid the throng, +No sweet applause rewards his song, +No friendly lip that guerdon breathes, +To bard more sweet than golden wreaths. +It might have been the minstrel's art +Had lost the power to move the heart, +It might have been his harp had grown +Too old to yield its wonted tone. + +But no, if hearts were cold and hard, +'Twas not the fault of harp or bard; +It was no false or broken sound +That failed to move the clansmen round. +Not these the men, nor these the times, +To nicely weigh the worth of rhymes; +'Twas what he said that made them chill, +And not his singing well or ill. + +Already had the stranger band +Of Saxons swept the weakened land, +Already on the neighbouring hills +They named anew a thousand rills, +"Our fairest castles," pondered Con, +"Already to the foe are gone, +Our noblest forests feed the flame, +And now we lose our fairest dame." + +But though his cheek was white with rage, +He seemed to smile, and cried--"O Sage! +O honey-spoken bard of truth! +MacDonnell is a valiant youth. +We long have been the Saxon's prey-- +Why not the Scot as well as they? +He's of as good a robber line +As any a Burke or Geraldine. + +"From Insi Gall,[86] so speaketh fame, +From Insi Gall his people came; +From Insi Gall, where storm winds roar +Beyond the gray Albin's icy shore. +His grandsire and his grandsire's son, +Full soon fat herds and pastures won; +But, by Columba! were we men, +We'd send the whole brood back again! + +"Oh! had we iron hands to dare, +As we have waxen hearts to bear, +Oh! had we manly blood to shed, +Or even to tinge our cheeks with red, +No bard could say as you have said, +One of the race of Somerled-- +A base intruder from the Isles-- +Basks in our island's sunniest smiles! + +"But, not to mar our feast to-night +With what to-morrow's sword may right, +O Bard of many songs! again +Awake thy sweet harp's silvery strain. +If beauty decks with peerless charm +MacDonnell's wife in fair Glenarm, +Say does there bound in Antrim's meads +A steed to match O'Donnell's steeds?" + +Submissive doth the bard incline + His reverend head, and cries, "O Con, +Thou heir of Conal Golban's line, + I've sang the fair wife of MacJohn; +You'll frown again as late you frowned, + But truth will out when lips are freed; +There's not a steed on Irish ground + To stand beside MacDonnell's steed! + +"Thy horses o'er Eargals' plains, + Like meteors stars their red eyes gleam; +With silver hoofs and broidered reins, + They mount the hill and swim the stream; +But like the wind through Barnesmore, + Or white-maned wave through Carrig-Rede,[87] +Or like a sea-bird to the shore, + Thus swiftly sweeps MacDonnell's steed! + +"A thousand graceful steeds had Fin, + Within lost Almhaim's fairy hall, +A thousand steeds as sleek of skin + As ever graced a chieftain's stall. +With gilded bridles oft they flew, + Young eagles in their lightning speed, +Strong as the cataract of Hugh,[88] + So swift and strong MacDonnell's steed!" + +Without the hearty word of praise, +Without the kindly smiling gaze, +Without the friendly hand to greet, +The daring bard resumes his seat. +Even in the hospitable face +Of Con, the anger you could trace. +But generous Con his wrath suppressed, +For Owen was Clan Dalaigh's guest. + +"Now, by Columba!" Con exclaimed, +"Methinks this Scot should be ashamed +To snatch at once, in sateless greed, +The fairest maid and finest steed; +My realm is dwindled in mine eyes, +I know not what to praise or prize, +And even my noble dog, O Bard, +Now seems unworthy my regard!" + +"When comes the raven of the sea + To nestle on an alien strand, +Oh! ever, ever will he be + The master of the subject land. +The fairest dame, he holdeth <i>her</i>-- + For him the noblest steed doth bound--; +Your dog is but a household cur, + Compared to John MacDonnell's hound! + +"As fly the shadows o'er the grass, + He flies with step as light and sure, +He hunts the wolf through Trosstan pass, + And starts the deer by Lisànoure! +The music of the Sabbath bells, + O Con, has not a sweeter sound +Than when along the valley swells + The cry of John MacDonnell's hound. + +"His stature tall, his body long, + His back like night, his breast like snow, +His fore-leg pillar-like and strong, + His hind-leg like a bended bow; +Rough, curling hair, head long and thin, + His ear a leaf so small and round: +Not Bran, the favourite hound of Fin, + Could rival John MacDonnell's hound. + +"O Con! thy bard will sing no more, + There is a fearful time at hand; +The Scot is on the northern shore, + The Saxon in the eastern land; +The hour comes on with quicker flight, + When all who live on Irish ground +Must render to the stranger's might + Both maid and wife, and steed and hound!" + +The trembling bard again retires, +But now he lights a thousand fires; +The pent-up flame bursts out at length, +In all its burning, tameless strength. +You'd think each clansman's foe was by, +So sternly flashed each angry eye; +You'd think 'twas in the battle's clang +O'Donnell's thundering accents rang! + +"No! by my sainted kinsman,[89] no! +This foul disgrace must not be so; +No, by the Shrines of Hy, I've sworn, +This foulest wrong must not be borne. +A better steed!--a fairer wife! +Was ever truer cause of strife? +A swifter hound!--a better steed! +Columba! these are cause indeed!" + +Again, like spray from mountain rill, +Up started Con: "By Collum Kille, +And by the blessed light of day, +This matter brooketh no delay. +The moon is down, the morn is up, +Come, kinsmen, drain a parting cup, +And swear to hold our next carouse, +With John MacJohn MacDonnell's spouse! + +"We've heard the song the bard has sung, +And as a healing herb among +Most poisonous weeds may oft be found, +So of this woman, steed, and hound; +The song has burned into our hearts, +And yet a lesson it imparts, +Had we but sense to read aright +The galling words we heard to-night. + +"What lesson does the good hound teach? +Oh, to be faithful each to each! +What lesson gives the noble steed? +Oh! to be swift in thought and deed! +What lesson gives the peerless wife? +Oh! there is victory after strife; +Sweet is the triumph, rich the spoil, +Pleasant the slumber after toil!" + +They drain the cup, they leave the hall, +They seek the armoury and stall, +The shield re-echoing to the spear +Proclaims the foray far and near; +And soon around the castles gate +Full sixty steeds impatient wait, +And every steed a knight upon, +The strong, small-powerful force of Con! + +Their lances in the red dawn flash, +As down by Easky's side they dash; +Their quilted jackets shine the more, +From gilded leather broidered o'er; +With silver spurs, and silken rein, +And costly riding-shoes from Spain; +Ah! much thou hast to fear, MacJohn, +The strong, small-powerful force of Con! + +As borne upon autumnal gales, +Wild whirring gannets pierce the sails +Of barks that sweep by Arran's shore,[90] +Thus swept the train through Barnesmore. +Through many a varied scene they ran, +By Castle Fin, and fair Strabane, +By many a hill, and many a clan, +Across the Foyle and o'er the Bann:-- + +Then stopping in their eagle flight, +They waited for the coming night, +And then, as Antrim's rivers rush +Straight from their founts with sudden gush, +Nor turn their strong, brief streams aside, +Until the sea receives their tide; +Thus rushed upon the doomed MacJohn +The swift, small-powerful force of Con. + +They took the castle by surprise, +No star was in the angry skies, +The moon lay dead within her shroud +Of thickly-folded ashen cloud; +They found the steed within his stall, +The hound within the oaken hall, +The peerless wife of thousand charms, +Within her slumbering husband's arms: + +The bard had pictured to the life +The beauty of MacDonnell's wife; +Not Evir[91] could with her compare +For snowy hand and shining hair; +The glorious banner morn unfurls +Were dark beside her golden curls; +And yet the blackness of her eye +Was darker than the moonless sky! + +If lovers listen to my lay, +Description is but thrown away; +If lovers read this antique tale, +What need I speak of red or pale? +The fairest form and brightest eye +Are simply those for which they sigh; +The truest picture is but faint +To what a lover's heart can paint. + +Well, she was fair, and Con was bold, +But in the strange, wild days of old; +To one rough hand was oft decreed +The noblest and the blackest deed. +'Twas pride that spurred O'Donnell on, +But still a generous heart had Con; +He wished to show that he was strong, +And not to do a bootless wrong. + +But now there's neither thought nor time +For generous act or bootless crime; +For other cares the thoughts demand +Of the small-powerful victor band. +They tramp along the old oak floors, +They burst the strong-bound chamber doors; +In all the pride of lawless power, +Some seek the vault, and some the tower. + +And some from out the postern pass, +And find upon the dew-wet grass +Full many a head of dappled deer, +And many a full-ey'd brown-back'd steer, +And heifers of the fragrant skins, +The pride of Antrim's grassy glynns, +Which with their spears they drive along, +A numerous, startled, bellowing throng. + +They leave the castle stripped and bare, +Each has his labour, each his share; +For some have cups, and some have plate, +And some have scarlet cloaks of state, +And some have wine, and some have ale, +And some have coats of iron mail, +And some have helms, and some have spears, +And all have lowing cows and steers! + +Away! away! the morning breaks +O'er Antrim's hundred hills and lakes; +Away! away! the dawn begins +To gild gray Antrim's deepest glynns; +The rosy steeds of morning stop, +As if to gaze on Collin top; +Ere they have left it bare and gray, +O'Donnell must be far away! + +The chieftain on a raven steed, +Himself the peerless dame doth lead, +Now like a pallid, icy corse, +And lifts her on her husband's horse; +His left hand holds his captive's rein, +His right is on the black steed's mane, +And from the bridle to the ground +Hangs the long leash that binds the hound. + +And thus before his victor clan, +Rides Con O'Donnell in the van; +Upon his left the drooping dame, +Upon his right, in wrath and shame, +With one hand free and one hand tied, +And eyes firm fixed upon his bride, +Vowing dread vengeance yet on Con, +Rides scowling, silent, stern MacJohn. + +They move with steps as swift as still, +'Twixt Collin mount and Slemish hill, +They glide along the misty plain, +And ford the sullen muttering Maine; +Some drive the cattle o'er the hills, +And some along the dried-up rills; +But still a strong force doth surround +The chiefs, the dame, the steed, and hound. + +Thus ere the bright-faced day arose, +The Bann lay broad between the foes. +But how to paint the inward scorn, +The self-reproach of those that morn, +Who waking found their chieftain gone, +The cattle swept from field and bawn, +The chieftain's castle stormed and drained, +And, worse than all, their honour stained! + +But when the women heard that Anne, +The queen, the glory of the clan +Was carried off by midnight foes, +Heavens! such despairing screams arose, +Such shrieks of agony and fright, +As only can be heard at night, +When Clough-i-Stookan's mystic rock +The wail of drowning men doth mock.[92] + +But thirty steeds are in the town, +And some are like the ripe heath, brown, +Some like the alder-berries, black, +Some like the vessel's foamy track; +But be they black, or brown, or white, +They are as swift as fawns in flight, +No quicker speed the sea gull hath +When sailing through the Gray Man's Path.[93] + +Soon are they saddled, soon they stand, +Ready to own the rider's hand, +Ready to dash with loosened rein +Up the steep hill, and o'er the plain; +Ready, without the prick of spurs, +To strike the gold cups from the furze: +And now they start with winged pace, +God speed them in their noble chase! + +By this time, on Ben Bradagh's height, +Brave Con had rested in his flight, +Beneath him, in the horizon's blue, +Lay his own valleys of Tirhugh. +It may have been the thought of home, +While resting on that mossy dome, +It may have been his native trees +That woke his mind to thoughts like these. + +"The race is o'er, the spoil is won, +And yet what boots it all I've done? +What boots it to have snatched away +This steed, and hound, and cattle-prey? +What boots it, with an iron hand +To tear a chieftain from his land, +And dim that sweetest light that lies +In a fond wife's adoring eyes? + +"If thus I madly teach my clan, +What can I hope from beast or man? +Fidelity a crime is found, +Or else why chain this faithful hound? +Obedience, too, a crime must be, +Or else this steed were roaming free; +And woman's love the worst of sins, +Or Anne were queen of Antrim's Glynnes! + +"If, when I reach my home to-night, +I see the yellow moonbeam's light +Gleam through the broken gate and wall +Of my strong fort of Donegal; +If I behold my kinsmen slain, +My barns devoid of golden grain, +How can I curse the pirate crew +For doing what this hour I do? + +"Well, in Columba's blessed name, +This day shall be a day of fame,-- +A day when Con in victory's hour +Gave up the untasted sweets of power; +Gave up the fairest dame on earth, +The noblest steed that e'er wore girth, +The noblest hound of Irish breed, +And all to do a generous deed." + +He turned and loosed MacDonnell's hand, +And led him where his steed doth stand; +He placed the bride of peerless charms +Within his longing, outstretched arms; +He freed the hound from chain and band, +Which, leaping, licked his master's hand; +And thus, while wonder held the crowd, +The generous chieftain spoke aloud:-- + +"MacJohn, I heard in wrathful hour + That thou in Antrim's glynnes possessed +The fairest pearl, the sweetest flower + That ever bloomed on Erin's breast. +I burned to think such prize should fall + To any Scotch or Saxon man, +But find that Nature makes us all + The children of one world-spread clan. + +"Within thy arms thou now dost hold + A treasure of more worth and cost +Than all the thrones and crowns of gold + That valour ever won or lost; +Thine is that outward perfect form, + Thine, too, the subtler inner life, +The love that doth that bright shape warm: + Take back, MacJohn, thy peerless wife!" + +"They praised thy steed. With wrath and grief + I felt my heart within me bleed, +That any but an Irish chief + Should press the back of such a steed; +I might to yonder smiling land + The noble beast reluctant lead; +But, no!--he'd miss thy guiding hand-- + Take back, MacJohn, thy noble steed. + +"The praises of thy matchless hound, + Burned in my breast like acrid wine; +I swore no chief on Irish ground + Should own a nobler hound than mine; +'Twas rashly sworn, and must not be, + He'd pine to hear the well-known sound, +With which thou call'st him to thy knee, + Take back, MacJohn, thy matchless hound. + +"MacJohn, I stretch to yours and you + This hand beneath God's blessed sun, +And for the wrong that I might do + Forgive the wrong that I have done; +To-morrow all that we have ta'en + Shall doubly, trebly be restored: +The cattle to the grassy plain, + The goblets to the oaken board. + +"My people from our richest meads + Shall drive the best our broad lands hold +For every steed a hundred steeds, + For every steer a hundred-fold; +For every scarlet cloak of state + A hundred cloaks all stiff with gold; +And may we be with hearts elate + Still older friends as we grow old. + +"Thou'st bravely won an Irish bride-- + An Irish bride of grace and worth-- +Oh! let the Irish nature glide + Into thy heart from this hour forth; +An Irish home thy sword has won, + A new-found mother blessed the strife; +Oh! be that mother's fondest son, + And love the land that gives you life! + +"Betwixt the Isles and Antrim's coast, + The Scotch and Irish waters blend; +But who shall tell, with idle boast, + Where one begins and one doth end? +Ah! when shall that glad moment gleam, + When all our hearts such spell shall feel? +And blend in one broad Irish stream, + On Irish ground for Ireland's weal? + +"Love the dear land in which you live, + Live in the land you ought to love; +Take root, and let your branches give + Fruits to the soil they wave above; +No matter what your foreign name, + No matter what your sires have done, +No matter whence or when you came, + The land shall claim you as a son!" + +As in the azure fields on high, +When Spring lights up the April sky, +The thick battalioned dusky clouds +Fly o'er the plain like routed crowds +Before the sun's resistless might! +Where all was dark, now all is bright; +The very clouds have turned to light, +And with the conquering beams unite! + +Thus o'er the face of John MacJohn +A thousand varying shades have gone; +Jealousy, anger, rage, disdain, +Sweep o'er his brow--a dusky train; +But nature, like the beam of spring, +Chaseth the crowd on sunny wing; +Joy warms his heart, hope lights his eye, +And the dark passions routed fly! + +The hands are clasped--the hound is freed, +Gone is MacJohn with wife and steed, +He meets his spearsmen some few miles, +And turns their scowling frowns to smiles: +At morn the crowded march begins +Of steeds and cattle for the glynnes; +Well for poor Erin's wrongs and griefs, +If thus would join her severed chiefs! +</pre> +<p><sup>77</sup> A beautiful inlet, about six miles west of Donegal.</p> +<p><sup>78</sup> Lough Eask is about two miles from Donegal.  Inglis + describes it as being as pretty a lake, on a small scale, as can + well be imagined.</p> +<p><sup>79</sup> The sands of Rosapenna are described as being composed + of "hills and dales, and undulating swells, smooth, solitary, + and desolate, reflecting the sun from their polished surface," + &c.</p> +<p><sup>80</sup> "Clan Dalaigh" is a name frequently given by Irish writers + to the Clan O'Donnell.</p> +<p><sup>81</sup> The "Fairy Gun" is an orifice in a cliff near Bundoran + (four miles S.W. of Ballyshannon), into which the sea rushes + with a noise like that of artillery, and from which mist, and a + chanting sound, issue in stormy weather.</p> +<p><sup>82</sup> The waterfall at Ballyshannon.</p> +<p><sup>83</sup> The O'Donnells are descended from Conal Golban, son of + Niall of the Nine Hostages.</p> +<p><sup>84</sup> Cushendall is very prettily situated on the eastern coast of + the county Antrim.  This, with all the territory known as the + <i>Glynnes</i> (so called from the intersection of its surface by many + rocky dells), from Glenarm to Ballycastle, was at this time in + the possession of the MacDonnells, a clan of Scotch descent.  + The principal castle of the MacDonnells was at Glenarm.</p> +<p><sup>85</sup> The Rock of Doune, in Kilmacrenan, where the O'Donnells + were inaugurated.</p> +<p><sup>86</sup> The Hebrides.</p> +<p><sup>87</sup> Carrick-a-rede (Carraig-a-Ramhad)—the Rock in the Road + lies off the coast, between Ballycastle and Portrush; a chasm + sixty feet in breadth, and very deep, separates it from the + coast.</p> +<p><sup>88</sup> The waterfall of Assaroe, at Ballyshannon.</p> +<p><sup>89</sup> St. Columba, who was an O'Donnell.</p> +<p><sup>90</sup> "This bird (the Gannet) flys through the ship's sails, + piercing them with his beak."—O'Flaherty's "H-Iar Connaught," + p. 12, published by the Irish Archæological Society.</p> +<p><sup>91</sup> She was the wife of Oisin, the bard, who is said to have + lived and sung for some time at Cushendall, and to have been + buried at Donegal.</p> +<p><sup>92</sup> The Rock of Clough-i-Stookan lies on the shore between + Glenarm and Cushendall; it has some resemblance to a + gigantic human figure.—"The winds whistle through its + crevices like the wailing of mariners in distress."—Hall's + "Ireland," vol. iii., p. 133.</p> +<p><sup>93</sup> "The Gray Man's Path" <i>(Casan an fir Leith)</i> is a deep + and remarkable chasm, dividing the promontory of Fairhead + (or Benmore) in two.</p> +<p><a name="p124" id="p124"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE BELL-FOUNDER.</h3> +<h5>PART I.—LABOUR AND HOPE.</h5> +</center> +<pre> +In that land where the heaven-tinted pencil giveth shape to the splendour of + dreams, +Near Florence, the fairest of cities, and Arno, the sweetest of streams, +'Neath those hills[94] whence the race of the Geraldine wandered in ages long + since, +For ever to rule over Desmond and Erin as martyr and prince, +Lived Paolo, the young Campanaro,[95] the pride of his own little vale-- +Hope changed the hot breath of his furnace as into a sea-wafted gale; +Peace, the child of Employment, was with him, with prattle so soothing and + sweet, +And Love, while revealing the future, strewed the sweet roses under his feet. + +Ah! little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills, +Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills. +Ah! little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased slumber enjoys, +Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that destroys, +Nothing to hope for, or labour for; nothing to sigh for, or gain; +Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain; +Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with its breath: +Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, and death! + +But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men, +Who, with hammer, or chisel, or pencil, with rudder, or ploughshare, or pen, +Laboureth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life, +Winning home and its darling divinities--love-worshipped children and wife, +Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the sharp chisel rings, +And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of kings; +He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his race, +Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the strong world in the face. + +And such was young Paolo! The morning, ere yet the faint starlight had gone, +To the loud-ringing workshop beheld him move joyfully light-footed on. +In the glare and the roar of the furnace he toiled till the evening star + burned, +And then back again through that valley, as glad but more weary returned. +One moment at morning he lingers by that cottage that stands by the stream, +Many moments at evening he tarries by that casement that woos the moon's beam; +For the light of his life and his labours, like a lamp from that casement + shines +In the heart-lighted face that looks out from that purple-clad trellis of + vines. + +Francesca! sweet, innocent maiden! 'tis not that thy young cheek is fair, +Or thy sun-lighted eyes glance like stars through the curls of thy wind-woven + hair; +'Tis not for thy rich lips of coral, or even thy white breast of snow, +That my song shall recall thee, Francesca! but more for the good heart below. +Goodness is beauty's best portion, a dower that no time can reduce, +A wand of enchantment and happiness, brightening and strengthening with use. +One the long-sigh'd-for nectar that earthliness bitterly tinctures and taints: +One the fading mirage of the fancy, and one the elysium it paints. + +Long ago, when thy father would kiss thee, the tears in his old eyes would + start, +For thy face--like a dream of his boyhood--renewed the fresh youth of his + heart; +He is gone; but thy mother remaineth, and kneeleth each night-time and morn, +And blesses the Mother of Blessings for the hour her Francesca was born. +There are proud stately dwellings in Florence, and mothers and maidens are + there, +And bright eyes as bright as Francesca's, and fair cheeks as brilliantly fair; +And hearts, too, as warm and as innocent, there where the rich paintings gleam, +But what proud mother blesses her daughter like the mother by Arno's sweet + stream? + +It was not alone when that mother grew aged and feeble to hear, +That thy voice like the whisper of angels still fell on the old woman's ear, +Or even that thy face, when the darkness of time overshadowed her sight, +Shone calm through the blank of her mind, like the moon in the midst of the + night. +But thine was the duty, Francesca, and the love-lightened labour was thine, +To treasure the white-curling wool and the warm-flowing milk of the kine, +And the fruits, and the clusters of purple, and the flock's tender yearly + increase, +That <i>she</i> might have rest in life's evening, and go to her Father in + peace. + +Francesca and Paolo are plighted, and they wait but a few happy days, +Ere they walk forth together in trustfulness out on Life's wonderful ways; +Ere, clasping the hands of each other, they move through the stillness and + noise, +Dividing the cares of existence, but doubling its hopes and its joys. +Sweet days of betrothment, which brighten so slowly to love's burning noon, +Like the days of the spring which grow longer, the nearer the fulness of June, +Though ye move to the noon and the summer of Love with a slow-moving wing, +Ye are lit with the light of the morning, and decked with the blossoms of + spring. + +The days of betrothment are over, for now when the evening star shines, +Two faces look joyfully out from that purple-clad trellis of vines; +The light-hearted laughter is doubled, two voices steal forth on the air, +And blend in the light notes of song, or the sweet solemn cadence of prayer. +At morning when Paolo departeth, 'tis out of that sweet cottage door, +At evening he comes to that casement, but passes that casement no more; +And the old feeble mother at night-time, when saying, "The Lord's will be + done," +While blessing the name of a daughter, now blendeth the name of a son. +</pre> +<center> +<h5>PART II.—TRIUMPH AND REWARD.</h5> +</center> +<pre> +In the furnace the dry branches crackle, the crucible shines as with gold, +As they carry the hot flaming metal in haste from the fire to the mould; +Loud roars the bellows, and louder the flames as they shrieking escape, +And loud is the song of the workmen who watch o'er the fast-filling shape; +To and fro in the red-glaring chamber the proud master anxiously moves, +And the quick and the skilful he praiseth, and the dull and the laggard + reproves; +And the heart in his bosom expandeth, as the thick bubbling metal up swells, +For like to the birth of his children he watcheth the birth of the bells. + +Peace had guarded the door of young Paolo, success on his industry smiled, +And the dark wing of Time had passed quicker than grief from the face of a + child; +Broader lands lay around that sweet cottage, younger footsteps tripped lightly + around, +And the sweet silent stillness was broken by the hum of a still sweeter sound. +At evening when homeward returning how many dear hands must he press, +Where of old at that vine-covered wicket he lingered but one to caress; +And <i>that</i> dearest one is still with him, to counsel, to strengthen, and + calm, +And to pour over Life's needful wounds the healing of Love's blessed balm. + +But age will come on with its winter, though happiness hideth its snows; +And if youth has its duty of labour, the birthright of age is repose: +And thus from that love-sweetened toil, which the heavens had so prospered and + blest, +The old Campanaro will go to that vine-covered cottage to rest; +But Paolo is pious and grateful, and vows as he kneels at her shrine, +To offer some fruit of his labour to Mary the Mother benign-- +Eight silver-toned bells will he offer, to toll for the quick and the dead, +From the tower of the church of her convent that stands on the cliff overhead. + +'Tis for this that the bellows are blowing, that the workmen their + sledge-hammers wield, +That the firm sandy moulds are now broken, and the dark-shining bells are + revealed; +The cars with their streamers are ready, and the flower-harnessed necks of the + steers, +And the bells from their cold silent workshop are borne amid blessings and + tears. +By the white-blossom'd, sweet-scented myrtles, by the olive-trees fringing the + plain, +By the corn-fields and vineyards is winding that gift-bearing, festival train; +And the hum of their voices is blending with the music that streams on the + gale, +As they wend to the Church of our Lady that stands at the head of the vale. + +Now they enter, and now more divinely the saints' painted effigies smile, +Now the acolytes bearing lit tapers move solemnly down through the aisle, +Now the thurifer swings the rich censer, and the white curling vapour + up-floats, +And hangs round the deep-pealing organ, and blends with the tremulous notes. +In a white shining alb comes the abbot, and he circles the bells round about, +And with oil, and with salt, and with water, they are purified inside and out; +They are marked with Christ's mystical symbol, while the priests and the + choristers sing, +And are bless'd in the name of that God to whose honour they ever shall ring. + +Toll, toll! with a rapid vibration, with a melody silv'ry and strong, +The bells from the sound-shaken belfry are singing their first maiden song; +Not now for the dead or the living, or the triumphs of peace or of strife, +But a quick joyous outburst of jubilee full of their newly-felt life; +Rapid, more rapid, the clapper rebounds from the round of the bells-- +Far and more far through the valley the intertwined melody swells-- +Quivering and broken the atmosphere trembles and twinkles around, +Like the eyes and the hearts of the hearers that glisten and beat to the sound. + +But how to express all his rapture when echo the deep cadence bore +To the old Campanaro reclining in the shade of his vine-covered door, +How to tell of the bliss that came o'er him as he gazed on the fair evening + star, +And heard the faint toll of the vesper bell steal o'er the vale from afar-- +Ah! it was not alone the brief ecstasy music doth ever impart +When Sorrow and Joy at its bidding come together and dwell in the heart; +But it was that delicious sensation with which the young mother is blest, +As she lists to the laugh of her child as it falleth asleep on her breast. + +From a sweet night of slumber he woke; but it was not that morn had unroll'd +O'er the pale, cloudy tents of the Orient, her banners of purple and gold: +It was not the song of the skylark that rose from the green pastures near, +But the sound of his bells that fell softly, as dew on the slumberer's ear. +At that sound he awoke and arose, and went forth on the bead-bearing grass-- +At that sound, with his loving Francesca, he piously knelt at the Mass. +If the sun shone in splendour around him, and that certain music were dumb, +He would deem it a dream of the night-time, and doubt if the morning had come. + +At noon, as he lay in the sultriness, under his broad-leafy limes, +Far sweeter than murmuring waters came the tone of the Angelus chimes. +Pious and tranquil he rose, and uncovered his reverend head, +And thrice was the Ave Maria and thrice was the Angelus said, +Sweet custom the South still retaineth, to turn for a moment away +From the pleasures and pains of existence, from the trouble and turmoil of day, +From the tumult within and without, to the peace that abideth on high, +When the deep, solemn sound from the belfry comes down like a voice from the + sky. + +And thus round the heart of the old man, at morning, at noon, and at eve, +The bells, with their rich woof of music, the net-work of happiness weave, +They ring in the clear, tranquil evening, and lo! all the air is alive, +As the sweet-laden thoughts come, like bees, to abide in the heart as a hive. +They blend with his moments of joy, as the odour doth blend with the flower-- +They blend with his light-falling tears, as the sunshine doth blend with the + shower. +As their music is mirthful or mournful, his pulse beateth sluggish or fast, +And his breast takes its hue, like the ocean, as the sunshine or shadows are + cast. + +Thus adding new zest to enjoyment, and drawing the sharp sting from pain, +The heart of the old man grew young, as it drank the sweet musical strain. +Again at the altar he stands, with Francesca the fair at his side, +As the bells ring a quick peal of gladness, to welcome some happy young bride. +'Tis true, when the death bells are tolling, the wounds of his heart bleed + anew, +When he thinks of his old loving mother, and the darlings that destiny slew; +But the tower in whose shade they are sleeping seems the emblem of hope and of + love,-- +There is silence and death at its base, but there's life in the belfry above. + +Was it the sound of his bells, as they swung in the purified air, +That drove from the bosom of Paolo the dark-wingèd demons of care? +Was it their magical tone that for many a shadowless day +(So faith once believed) swept the clouds and the black-boding tempests away? +Ah! never may Fate with their music a harsh-grating dissonance blend! +Sure an evening so calm and so bright will glide peacefully on to the end. +Sure the course of his life, to its close, like his own native river must be, +Flowing on through the valley of flowers to its home in the bright summer sea! +</pre> +<center> +<h5>PART III.—VICISSITUDE AND REST.</h5> +</center> +<pre> +O Erin! thou broad-spreading valley--thou well-watered land of fresh streams, +When I gaze on thy hills greenly sloping, where the light of such loveliness + beams, +When I rest by the rim of thy fountains, or stray where thy streams disembogue, +Then I think that the fairies have brought me to dwell in the bright + Tir-na-n-oge.[96] +But when on the face of thy children I look, and behold the big tears +Still stream down their grief-eaten channels, which widen and deepen with + years, +I fear that some dark blight for ever will fall on thy harvests of peace, +And that, like thy lakes and thy rivers, thy sorrows must ever increase.[97] + +O land! which the heavens made for joy, but where wretchedness buildeth its + throne-- +O prodigal spendthrift of sorrow! and hast thou not heirs of thine own? +Thus to lavish thy sons' only portion, and bring one sad claimant the more, +From the sweet sunny lands of the south, to thy crowded and sorrowful shore? +For this proud bark that cleaveth thy waters, she is not a corrach of thine, +And the broad purple sails that spread o'er her seem dyed in the juice of the + vine. +Not thine is that flag, backward floating, nor the olive-cheek'd seamen who + guide, +Nor that heart-broken old man who gazes so listlessly over the tide. + +Accurs'd be the monster, who selfishly draweth his sword from its sheath; +Let his garland be twined by the furies, and the upas tree furnish the wreath; +Let the blood he has shed steam around him, through the length of eternity's + years, +And the anguish-wrung screams of his victims for ever resound in his ears. +For all that makes life worth possessing must yield to his self-seeking lust: +He trampleth on home and on love, as his war-horses trample the dust; +He loosens the red streams of ruin, which wildly, though partially, stray-- +They but chafe round the rock-bastion'd castle, while they sweep the frail + cottage away. + +Feuds fell like a plague upon Florence, and rage from without and within; +Peace turned her mild eyes from the havoc, and Mercy grew deaf in the din; +Fear strengthened the dove-wings of happiness, tremblingly borne on the gale; +And the angel Security vanished, as the war-demon swept o'er the vale. +Is it for the Mass or the Angelus new that the bells ever ring? +Or is it the red trickling mist such a purple reflection doth fling? +Ah, no: 'tis the tocsin of terror that tolls from the desolate shrine; +And the down-trodden vineyards are flowing, but not with the blood of the vine. + +Deadly and dark was the tempest that swept o'er that vine-cover'd plain; +Burning and withering, its drops fell like fire on the grass and the grain. +But the gloomiest moments must pass to their graves, as the brightest and best, +And thus once again did fair Fiesole look o'er a valley of rest. +But, oh! in that brief hour of horror, that bloody eclipse of the sun, +What hopes and what dreams have been shattered?--what ruin and wrong have been + done? +What blossoms for ever have faded, that promised a harvest so fair; +And what joys are laid low in the dust that eternity cannot repair! + +Look down on that valley of sorrows, whence the land-marks of joy are removed, +Oh! where is the darling Francesca, so loving, so dearly beloved?-- +And where are her children, whose voices rose music-winged once form this spot? +And why are the sweet bells now silent? and where is the vine-cover'd cot? +'Tis morning--no Mass-bell is tolling; 'tis noon, but no Angelus rings; +'Tis evening, but no drops of melody rain from her rose-coloured wings. +Ah! where have the angels, poor Paolo, that guarded thy cottage door flown? +And why have they left thee to wander thus childless and joyless alone? + +His children had grown into manhood, but, ah! in that terrible night +Which had fallen on fair Florence, they perished away in the thick of the + fight; +Heart-blinded, his darling Francesca went seeking her sons through the gloom, +And found them at length, and lay down full of love by their side in the tomb, +That cottage, its vine-cover'd porch and its myrtle-bound garden of flowers, +That church whence the bells with their voices, drown'd the sound of the + fast-flying hours, +Both are levelled and laid in the dust, and the sweet-sounding bells have been + torn +From their downfallen beams, and away by the red hand of sacrilege borne. + +As the smith, in the dark, sullen smithy, striketh quick on the anvil below, +Thus Fate on the heart of the old man struck rapidly blow after blow: +Wife, children, and hope passed away from the heart once so burning and bold, +As the bright shining sparks disappear when the red glowing metal grows cold. +He missed not the sound of his bells while those death-sounds struck loud in + the ears, +He missed not the church where they rang while his old eyes were blinded with + tears; +But the calmness of grief coming soon, in its sadness and silence profound, +He listened once more as of old, but in vain, for the joy-bearing sound. + +When he felt indeed they had vanished, one fancy then flashed on his brain, +One wish made his heart beat anew with a throbbing it could not restrain-- +'Twas to wander away from fair Florence, its memory and dream-haunted dells, +And to seek up and down through the earth for the sound of its magical bells. +They will speak of the hopes that have perished, and the joys that have faded + so fast +With the music of memory wingèd, they will seem but the voice of the past; +As, when the bright morning has vanished, and evening grows starless and dark, +The nightingale song of remembrance recalls the sweet strain of the lark. + +Thus restlessly wandering through Italy, now by the Adrian sea, +In the shrine of Loreto, he bendeth his travel-tired suppliant knee; +And now by the brown troubled Tiber he taketh his desolate way, +And in many a shady basilica lingers to listen and pray. +He prays for the dear ones snatched from him, nor vainly nor hopelessly prays, +For the strong faith in union hereafter like a beam o'er his cold bosom plays; +He listens at morning and evening, when matin and vesper bells toll, +But their sweetest sounds grate on his ear, and their music is harsh to his + soul. + +For though sweet are the bells that ring out from the tall campanili of Rome, +Ah! they are not the dearer and sweeter ones, tuned with the memory of home. +So leaving proud Rome and fair Tivoli, southward the old man must stray, +'Till he reaches the Eden of waters that sparkle in Napoli's bay: +He sees not the blue waves of Baiæ, nor Ischia's summits of brown, +He sees but the high campanili that rise o'er each far-gleaming town. +Driven restlessly onward, he saileth away to the bright land of Spain, +And seeketh thy shrine, Santiago, and stands by the western main. + +A bark bound for Erin lay waiting, he entered like one in a dream; +Fair winds in the full purple sails led him soon to the Shannon's broad stream. +'Twas an evening that Florence might envy, so rich was the lemon-hued air, +As it lay on lone Scattery's island, or lit the green mountains of Clare; +The wide-spreading old giant river rolled his waters as smooth and as still +As if Oonagh, with all her bright nymphs, had come down from the far fairy + hill,[98] +To fling her enchantments around on the mountains, the air, and the tide, +And to soothe the worn heart of the old man who looked from the dark vessel's + side. + +Borne on the current the vessel glides smoothly but swiftly away, +By Carrigaholt, and by many a green sloping headland and bay, +'Twixt Cratloe's blue hills and green woods, and the soft sunny shores of + Tervoe, +And now the fair city of Limerick spreads out on the broad bank below; +Still nearer and nearer approaching, the mariners look o'er the town, +The old man sees nought but St. Mary's square tower, with its battlements + brown. +He listens--as yet all is silent, but now, with a sudden surprise, +A rich peal of melody rings from that tower through the clear evening skies! + +One note is enough--his eye moistens, his heart, long so wither'd, outswells, +He has found them--the sons of his labours--his musical, magical bells! +At each stroke all the bright past returneth, around him the sweet Arno shines, +His children--his darling Francesca--his purple-clad trellis of vines! +Leaning forward, he listens, he gazes, he hears in that wonderful strain +The long-silent voices that murmur, "Oh, leave us not, father again!" +'Tis granted--he smiles--his eye closes--the breath from his white lips hath + fled-- +The father has gone to his children--the old Campanaro is dead! +</pre> +<p><sup>94</sup> The hills of Else.  See Appendix to + O'Daly's "History of the Geraldines," translated by the Rev. C. P. Meehan, + p. 130.</p> +<p><sup>95</sup> Bell-founder.</p> +<p><sup>96</sup> The country of youth; the Elysium of the + Pagan Irish.</p> +<p><sup>97</sup> Camden seems to credit a + tradition commonly believed in his time, of a gradual increase in the number + and size of the lakes and rivers of Ireland.</p> +<p><sup>98</sup> The beautiful hill in Lower + Ormond called <i>Knockshegowna,</i> i.e., Oonagh's Hill, so called from being + the fabled residence of Oonagh (or Una), the Fairy Queen of Spenser.  One + of the finest views of the Shannon is to be seen from this hill.</p> +<p><a name="p140" id="p140"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>ALICE AND UNA.</h3> +<h5>A TALE OF CEIM-AN-EICH.<sup>99</sup></h5> +</center> +<pre> +Ah! the pleasant time hath vanished, ere our wretched doubtings banished, +All the graceful spirit-people, children of the earth and sea, +Whom in days now dim and olden, when the world was fresh and golden, +Every mortal could behold in haunted rath, and tower, and tree-- +They have vanished, they are banished--ah! how sad the loss for thee, + Lonely Céim-an-eich! + +Still some scenes are yet enchanted by the charms that Nature granted, +Still are peopled, still are haunted, by a graceful spirit band. +Peace and beauty have their dwelling where the infant streams are welling, +Where the mournful waves are knelling on Glengariff's coral strand; +Or where, on Killarney's mountains, Grace and Terror smiling stand, + Like sisters, hand in hand! + +Still we have a new romance in fire-ships through the tamed sea glancing, +And the snorting and the prancing of the mighty engine steed; +Still, Astolpho-like, we wander through the boundless azure yonder, +Realizing what seemed fonder than the magic tales we read: +Tales of wild Arabian wonder, where the fancy all is freed-- + Wilder far indeed! + +Now that Earth once more hath woken, and the trance of Time is broken, +And the sweet word--Hope--is spoken, soft and sure, though none know how, +Could we, could we only see all these, the glories of the Real, +Blended with the lost Ideal, happy were the old world now-- +Woman in its fond believing--man with iron arm and brow-- + Faith and work its vow! + +Yes! the Past shines clear and pleasant, and there's glory in the Present; +And the Future, like a crescent, lights the deepening sky of Time; +And that sky will yet grow brighter, if the Worker and the Writer-- +If the Sceptre and the Mitre join in sacred bonds sublime. +With two glories shining o'er them, up the coming years they'll climb, + Earth's great evening as its prime! + +With a sigh for what is fading, but, O Earth! with no upbraiding, +For we feel that time is braiding newer, fresher flowers for thee, +We will speak, despite our grieving, words of loving and believing, +Tales we vowed when we were leaving awful Céim-an-eich, +Where the sever'd rocks resemble fragments of a frozen sea, + And the wild deer flee! + +'Tis the hour when flowers are shrinking, when the weary sun is sinking, +And his thirsty steeds are drinking in the cooling western sea; +When young Maurice lightly goeth, where the tiny streamlet floweth +And the struggling moonlight showeth where his path must be-- +Path whereon the wild goats wander fearlessly and free + Through dark Céim-an-eich. + +As a hunter, danger daring, with his dogs the brown moss sharing, +Little thinking, little caring, long a wayward youth lived he; +But his bounding heart was regal, and he looked as looks the eagle, +And he flew as flies the beagle, who the panting stag doth see: +Love, who spares a fellow-archer, long had let him wander free + Through wild Céim-an-eich! + +But at length the hour drew nigher when his heart should feel that fire; +Up the mountain high and higher had he hunted from the dawn; +Till the weeping fawn descended, where the earth and ocean blended, +And with hope its slow way wended to a little grassy lawn; +It is safe, for gentle Alice to her saving breast hath drawn + Her almost sister fawn. + +Alice was a chieftain's daughter, and, though many suitors sought her, +She so loved Glengariff's water that she let her lovers pine; +Her eye was beauty's palace, and her cheek an ivory chalice, +Through which the blood of Alice gleamed soft as rosiest wine, +And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the fairies intertwine,[100] + And her heart a golden mine. + +She was gentler and shyer than the light fawn that stood by her, +And her eyes emit a fire soft and tender as her soul; +Love's dewy light doth drown her, and the braided locks that crown her +Than autumn's trees are browner, when the golden shadows roll +Through the forests in the evening, when cathedral turrets toll, + And the purple sun advanceth to its goal. + +Her cottage was a dwelling all regal homes excelling, +But, ah! beyond the telling was the beauty round it spread: +The wave and sunshine playing, like sisters each arraying, +Far down the sea-plants swaying upon their coral bed, +As languid as the tresses on a sleeping maiden's head, + When the summer breeze is dead. + +Need we say that Maurice loved her, and that no blush reproved her +When her throbbing bosom moved her to give the heart she gave; +That by dawnlight and by twilight, and, O blessed moon! by thy light, +When the twinkling stars on high light the wanderer o'er the wave, +His steps unconscious led him where Glengariff's waters lave + Each mossy bank and cave. + +He thitherward is wending, o'er the vale is night descending, +Quick his step, but quicker sending his herald thoughts before; +By rocks and streams before him, proud and hopeful on he bore him; +One star was shining o'er him--in his heart of hearts two more-- +And two other eyes, far brighter than a human head e'er wore, + Unseen were shining o'er. + +These eyes are not of woman, no brightness merely human +Could, planet-like, illumine the place in which they shone; +But Nature's bright works vary--there are beings light and airy, +Whom mortal lips call fairy, and Una she is one-- +Sweet sisters of the moonbeams and daughters of the sun, + Who along the curling cool waves run. + +As summer lightning dances amid the heavens' expanses, +Thus shone the burning glances of those flashing fairy eyes; +Three splendours there were shining, three passions intertwining, +Despair and hope combining their deep-contrasted dyes, +With jealousy's green lustre, as troubled ocean vies + With the blue of summer skies! + +She was a fairy creature, of heavenly form and feature, +Not Venus' self could teach her a newer, sweeter grace, +Not Venus' self could lend her an eye so dark and tender, +Half softness and half splendour, as lit her lily face; +And as the choral planets move harmonious throughout space, + There was music in her pace. + +But when at times she started, and her blushing lips were parted, +And a pearly lustre darted from her teeth so ivory white, +You'd think you saw the gliding of two rosy clouds dividing, +And the crescent they were hiding gleam forth upon your sight +Through these lips, as though the portals of a heaven pure and bright, + Came a breathing of delight! + +Though many an elf-king loved her, and elf-dames grave reproved her, +The hunter's daring moved her more wildly every hour; +Unseen she roamed beside him, to guard him and to guide him, +But now she must divide him from her human rival's power. +Ah! Alice!--gentle Alice! the storm begins to lower + That may crush Glengariff's flower! + +The moon, that late was gleaming, as calm as childhood's dreaming, +Is hid, and, wildly screaming, the stormy winds arise; +And the clouds flee quick and faster before their sullen master, +And the shadows of disaster are falling from the skies; +Strange sights and sounds are rising--but, Maurice, be thou wise, + Nor heed the tempting cries. + +If ever mortal needed that council, surely he did; +But the wile has now succeeded--he wanders from his path; +The cloud its lightning sendeth, and its bolt the stout oak rendeth, +And the arbutus back bendeth in the whirlwind, as a lath! +Now and then the moon looks out, but, alas! its pale face hath + A dreadful look of wrath. + +In vain his strength he squanders--at each step he wider wanders-- +Now he pauses--now he ponders where his present path may lead; +And, as he round is gazing, he sees--a sight amazing-- +Beneath him, calmly grazing, a noble jet-black steed. +"Now, heaven be praised!" cried Maurice, "for this succour in my need-- + From this labyrinth I'm freed!" + +Upon its back he leapeth, but a shudder through him creepeth, +As the mighty monster sweepeth like a torrent through the dell; +His mane, so softly flowing, is now a meteor blowing, +And his burning eyes are glowing with the light of an inward hell; +And the red breath of his nostrils, like steam where the lightning fell; + And his hoofs have a thunder knell! + +What words have we for painting the momentary fainting +That the rider's heart is tainting, as decay doth taint a corse? +But who will stoop to chiding, in a fancied courage priding, +When we know that he is riding the fearful Phooka Horse?[101] +Ah! his heart beats quick and faster than the smitings of remorse + As he sweepeth through the wild grass and gorse! + +As the avalanche comes crashing, 'mid the scattered streamlets splashing, +Thus backward wildly dashing flew the horse through Céim-an-eich-- +Through that glen so wide and narrow back he darted like an arrow-- +Round, round by Gougane Barra, and the fountains of the Lee; +O'er the Giant's Grave he leapeth, and he seems to own in fee + The mountains, and the rivers, and the sea! + +From his flashing hoofs who shall lock the eagle homes of Malloc, +When he bounds, as bounds the Mialloch[102] in its wild and murmuring tide? +But as winter leadeth Flora, or the night leads on Aurora, +Or as shines green Glashenglora[103] along the black hill's side, +Thus, beside that demon monster, white and gentle as a bride, + A tender fawn is seen to glide. + +It is the fawn that fled him, and that late to Alice led him, +But now it does not dread him, as it feigned to do before, +When down the mountain gliding, in that sheltered meadow hiding, +It left his heart abiding by wild Glengariff's shore: +For it was a gentle fairy who the fawn's light form thus wore, + And who watched sweet Alice o'er. + +But the steed is backward prancing where late it was advancing, +And his flashing eyes are glancing, like the sun upon Lough Foyle; +The hardest granite crushing, through the thickest brambles brushing, +Now like a shadow rushing up the sides of Slieve-na-goil! +And the fawn beside him gliding o'er the rough and broken soil, + Without fear and without toil. + +Through woods, the sweet birds' leaf home, he rusheth to the sea foam, +Long, long the fairies' chief home, when the summer nights are cool, +And the blue sea, like a syren, with its waves the steed environ, +Which hiss like furnace iron when plunged within a pool, +Then along among the islands where the water nymphs bear rule, + Through the bay to Adragool. + +Now he rises o'er Berehaven, where he hangeth like a raven-- +Ah! Maurice, though no craven, how terrible for thee +To see the misty shading of the mighty mountains fading, +And thy winged fire-steed wading through the clouds as through a sea! +Now he feels the earth beneath him--he is loosen'd--he is free, + And asleep in Céim-an-eich. + +Away the wild steed leapeth, while his rider calmly sleepeth +Beneath a rock which keepeth the entrance to the glen, +Which standeth like a castle, where are dwelling lord and vassal, +Where within are wind and wassail, and without are warrior men; +But save the sleeping Maurice, this castle cliff had then + No mortal denizen![104] + +Now Maurice is awaking, for the solid earth is shaking, +And a sunny light is breaking through the slowly opening stone +And a fair page at the portal crieth, "Welcome, welcome! mortal, +Leave thy world (at best a short ill), for the pleasant world we own: +There are joys by thee untasted, there are glories yet unknown-- + Come kneel at Una's throne." + +With a sullen sound of thunder, the great rock falls asunder, +He looks around in wonder, and with ravishment awhile, +For the air his sense is chaining, with as exquisite a paining +As when summer clouds are raining o'er a flowery Indian isle; +And the faces that surround him, oh! how exquisite their smile, + So free of mortal care and guile. + +These forms, oh! they are finer--these faces are diviner +Than, Phidias, even thine are, with all thy magic art; +For beyond an artist's guessing, and beyond a bard's expressing, +Is the face that truth is dressing with the feelings of the heart; +Two worlds are there together--earth and heaven have each a part-- + And of such, divinest Una, thou art! + +And then the dazzling lustre of the hall in which they muster-- +Where the brightest diamonds cluster on the flashing walls around; +And the flying and advancing, and the sighing and the glancing. +And the music and the dancing on the flower-inwoven ground, +And the laughing and the feasting, and the quaffing and the sound, + In which their voices all are drowned. + +But the murmur now is hushing--there's a pushing and a rushing, +There's a crowding and a crushing, through that golden, fairy place, +Where a snowy veil is lifting, like the slow and silent shifting +Of a shining vapour drifting across the moon's pale face-- +For there sits gentle Una, fairest queen of fairy race, + In her beauty, and her majesty, and grace. + +The moon by stars attended, on her pearly throne ascended, +Is not more purely splendid than this fairy-girted queen; +And when her lips had spoken, 'mid the charmed silence broken, +You'd think you had awoken in some bright Elysian scene; +For her voice than the lark's was sweeter, that sings in joy between + The heavens and the meadows green. + +But her cheeks--ah! what are roses?--what are clouds where eve reposes?-- +What are hues that dawn discloses?--to the blushes spreading there; +And what the sparkling motion of a star within the ocean, +To the crystal soft emotion that her lustrous dark eyes wear? +And the tresses of a moonless and a starless night are fair + To the blackness of her raven hair. + +Ah! mortal hearts have panted for what to thee is granted-- +To see the halls enchanted of the spirit world revealed; +And yet no glimpse assuages the feverish doubt that rages +In the hearts of bards and sages wherewith they may be healed; +For this have pilgrims wandered--for this have votaries kneeled-- + For this, too, has blood bedewed the field. + +"And now that thou beholdest what the wisest and the oldest, +What the bravest and the boldest, have never yet descried, +Wilt thou come and share our being, be a part of what thou'rt seeing, +And flee, as we are fleeing, through the boundless ether wide? +Or along the silver ocean, or down deep where pale pearls hide? + And I, who am a queen, will be thy bride. + +"As an essence thou wilt enter the world's mysterious centre," +And then the fairy bent her, imploring to the youth-- +"Thou'lt be free of Death's cold ghastness, and, with a comet's fastness, +Thou canst wander through the vastness to the Paradise of Truth, +Each day a new joy bringing, which will never leave in sooth + The slightest stain of weariness and ruth." + +As he listened to the speaker, his heart grew weak and weaker-- +Ah! Memory, go seek her, that maiden by the wave, +Who with terror and amazement is looking from her casement, +Where the billows at the basement of her nestled cottage rave, +At the moon which struggles onward through the tempest, like the brave, + And which sinks within the clouds as in a grave. + +All maidens will abhor us, and it's very painful for us +To tell how faithless Maurice forgot his plighted vow: +He thinks not of the breaking of the heart he late was seeking, +He but listens to her speaking, and but gazes on her brow; +And his heart has all consented, and his lips are ready now + With the awful and irrevocable vow. + +While the word is there abiding, lo! the crowd is now dividing, +And, with sweet and gentle gliding, in before him came a fawn; +It was the same that fled him, and that seemed so much to dread him, +When it down in triumph led him to Glengariff's grassy lawn, +When, from rock to rock descending, to sweet Alice he was drawn, + As through Céim-an-eich he hunted from the dawn. + +The magic chain is broken--no fairy vow is spoken-- +From his trance he hath awoken, and once again is free; +And gone is Una's palace, and vain the wild steed's malice, +And again to gentle Alice down he wends through Céim-an-eich: +The moon is calmly shining over mountain, stream, and tree, + And the yellow sea-plants glisten through the sea. + +The sun his gold is flinging, the happy birds are singing, +And bells are gaily ringing along Glengariff's sea; +And crowds in many a galley to the happy marriage rally +Of the maiden of the valley and the youth of Céim-an-eich; +Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask on bended knee + A blessing, gentle Alice, upon thee! +</pre> +<p><sup>99</sup> The pass of Kéim-an-eigh (the path of the deer) + lies to the south-west of Inchageela, in the direction of Bantry Bay.</p> +<p><sup>100</sup> The lusmore (or fairy cap), literally the great herb, + <i>Digitalis purpurea.</i></p> +<p><sup>101</sup> The Phooka is described as belonging to the malignant class + of fairy + beings, and he is as wild and capricious in his character as he is changeable + in his form.  At one time an eagle or an <i>ignis fatuus,</i> at another + a horse + or a bull, while occasionally he figures as a compound of the calf and + goat.  + When he assumes the form of a horse, his great object, according to a recent + writer, seems to be to obtain a rider, and then he is in his most malignant + glory.—See Croker's "Fairy Legends."</p> +<p><sup>102</sup> Mialloch, "the murmuring river" at + Glengariff.—Smith's "Cork."</p> +<p><sup>103</sup> Glashenglora, a mountain torrent, which finds its way + into the Atlantic + Ocean through Glengariff, in the west of the county of Cork.  The name, + literally translated, signifies "the noisy green water."—Barry's "Songs + of Ireland," p. 173.</p> +<p><sup>104</sup> There is a great square rock, literally resembling the + description in the text, which stands near the Glengariff entrance to + the pass of Céim-an-eich.</p> +<p><a name="p154" id="p154"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2><i>National Poems and Songs.</i></h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +<h3>ADVANCE!</h3> +</center> +<pre> +God bade the sun with golden step sublime, + Advance! +He whispered in the listening ear of Time, + Advance! +He bade the guiding spirits of the stars, +With lightning speed, in silver shining cars, +Along the bright floor of his azure hall, + Advance! +Sun, stars, and time obey the voice, and all + Advance! + +The river at its bubbling fountain cries, + Advance! +The clouds proclaim, like heralds through the skies, + Advance! +Throughout the world the mighty Master's laws +Allow not one brief moment's idle pause; +The earth is full of life, the swelling seeds + Advance! +And summer hours, like flowery harnessed steeds, + Advance! + +To man's most wondrous hand the same voice cried, + Advance! +Go clear the woods, and o'er the bounding tide + Advance! +Go draw the marble from its secret bed, +And make the cedar bend its giant head; +Let domes and columns through the wondering air + Advance! +The world, O man! is thine; but, wouldst thou share, + Advance! + +Unto the soul of man the same voice spoke, + Advance! +From out the chaos, thunder-like, it broke, + "Advance! +Go track the comet in its wheeling race, +And drag the lightning from its hiding-place; +From out the night of ignorance and fears, + Advance! +For Love and Hope, borne by the coming years, + Advance!" + +All heard, and some obeyed the great command, + Advance! +It passed along from listening land to land, + Advance! +The strong grew stronger, and the weak grew strong, +As passed the war-cry of the world along-- +Awake, ye nations, know your powers and rights-- + Advance! +Through hope and work to Freedom's new delights, + Advance! + +Knowledge came down and waved her steady torch, + Advance! +Sages proclaimed 'neath many a marble porch, + Advance! +As rapid lightning leaps from peak to peak, +The Gaul, the Goth, the Roman, and the Greek, +The painted Briton caught the wingèd word, + Advance! +And earth grew young, and carolled as a bird, + Advance! + +O Ireland! oh, my country, wilt thou not + Advance? +Wilt thou not share the world's progressive lot?-- + Advance! +Must seasons change, and countless years roll on, +And thou remain a darksome Ajalon? +And never see the crescent moon of Hope + Advance? +'Tis time thine heart and eye had wider scope-- + Advance! + +Dear brothers, wake! look up! be firm! be strong + Advance! +From out the starless night of fraud and wrong + Advance! +The chains have fall'n from off thy wasted hands, +And every man a seeming freedman stands;-- +But, ah! 'tis in the soul that freedom dwells,-- + Advance! +Proclaim that there thou wearest no manacles;-- + Advance! + +Advance! thou must advance or perish now;-- + Advance! +Advance! Why live with wasted heart and brow?-- + Advance! +Advance! or sink at once into the grave; +Be bravely free or artfully a slave! +Why fret thy master, if thou must have one? + Advance! +Advance three steps, the glorious work is done;-- + Advance! + +The first is COURAGE--'tis a giant stride!-- + Advance! +With bounding step up Freedom's rugged side + Advance! +KNOWLEDGE will lead thee to the dazzling heights, +TOLERANCE will teach and guard thy brother's rights. +Faint not! for thee a pitying Future waits-- + Advance! +Be wise, be just, with will as fixed as Fate's,-- + Advance! +</pre> +<p><a name="p157" id="p157"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>REMONSTRANCE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Bless the dear old verdant land, + Brother, wert thou born of it? +As thy shadow life doth stand, +Twining round its rosy band, +Did an Irish mother's hand + Guide thee in the morn of it? +Did thy father's soft command + Teach thee love or scorn of it? + +Thou who tread'st its fertile breast, + Dost thou feel a glow for it? +Thou, of all its charms possest, +Living on its first and best, +Art thou but a thankless guest, + Or a traitor foe for it? +If thou lovest, where the test? + Wouldst thou strike a blow for it? + +Has the past no goading sting + That can make thee rouse for it? +Does thy land's reviving spring, +Full of buds and blossoming, +Fail to make thy cold heart cling, + Breathing lover's vows for it? +With the circling ocean's ring + Thou wert made a spouse for it! + +Hast thou kept, as thou shouldst keep, + Thy affections warm for it, +Letting no cold feeling creep, +Like the ice breath o'er the deep, +Freezing to a stony sleep + Hopes the heart would form for it-- +Glories that like rainbows weep + Through the darkening storm for it? + +What we seek is Nature's right-- + Freedom and the aids of it;-- +Freedom for the mind's strong flight +Seeking glorious shapes star-bright +Through the world's intensest night, + When the sunshine fades of it! +Truth is one, and so is light, + Yet how many shades of it! + +A mirror every heart doth wear, + For heavenly shapes to shine in it; +If dim the glass or dark the air, +That Truth, the beautiful and fair, +God's glorious image, shines not there, + Or shines with nought divine in it: +A sightless lion in its lair, + The darkened soul must pine in it! + +Son of this old, down-trodden land, + Then aid us in the fight for it; +We seek to make it great and grand, +Its shipless bays, its naked strand, +By canvas-swelling breezes fanned. + Oh! what a glorious sight for it! +The past expiring like a brand, + In morning's rosy light for it! + +Think that this dear old land is thine, + And thou a traitor slave of it; +Think how the Switzer leads his kine, +When pale the evening star doth shine, +His song has home in every line, + Freedom in every stave of it! +Think how the German loves his Rhine, + And worships every wave of it! + +Our own dear land is bright as theirs, + But, oh! our hearts are cold for it; +Awake! we are not slaves but heirs; +Our fatherland requires our cares, +Our work with man, with God our prayers. + Spurn blood-stained Judas-gold for it, +Let us do all that honour dares-- + Be earnest, faithful, bold for it! +</pre> +<p><a name="p159" id="p159"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>IRELAND'S VOW.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Come! Liberty, come! we are ripe for thy coming-- + Come freshen the hearts where thy rival has trod-- +Come, richest and rarest!--come, purest and fairest!-- + Come, daughter of Science!--come, gift of the God! + +Long, long have we sighed for thee, coyest of maidens-- + Long, long have we worshipped thee, queen of the brave! +Steadily sought for thee, readily fought for thee, + Purpled the scaffold and glutted the grave! + +On went the fight through the cycle of ages, + Never our battle-cry ceasing the while; +Forward, ye valiant ones! onward, battalioned ones! + Strike for your Erin, your own darling isle! + +Still in the ranks are we, struggling with eagerness, + Still in the battle for Freedom are we! +Words may avail in it--swords if they fail in it, + What matters the weapon, if only we're free? + +Oh! we are pledged in the face of the universe, + Never to falter and never to swerve; +Toil for it!--bleed for it!--if there be need for it, + Stretch every sinew and strain every nerve! + +Traitors and cowards our names shall be ever, + If for a moment we turn from the chase; +For ages exhibited, scoffed at, and gibbeted, + As emblems of all that was servile and base! + +Irishmen! Irishmen! think what is Liberty, + Fountain of all that is valued and dear, +Peace and security, knowledge and purity, + Hope for hereafter and happiness here. + +Nourish it, treasure it deep in your inner heart-- + Think of it ever by night and by day; +Pray for it!--sigh for it!--work for it!--die for it!-- + What is this life and dear freedom away? + +List! scarce a sound can be heard in our thoroughfares-- + Look! scarce a ship can be seen on our streams; +Heart-crushed and desolate, spell-bound, irresolute, + Ireland but lives in the bygone of dreams! + +Irishmen! if we be true to our promises, + Nerving our souls for more fortunate hours, +Life's choicest blessings, love's fond caressings, + Peace, home, and happiness, all shall be ours! +</pre> +<p><a name="p160" id="p160"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>A DREAM.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +I dreamt a dream, a dazzling dream, of a green isle far away, +Where the glowing West to the ocean's breast calleth the dying day; +And that island green was as fair a scene as ever man's eye did see, +With its chieftains bold and its temples old, and its homes and its altars + free! +No foreign foe did that green isle know, no stranger band it bore, +Save the merchant train from sunny Spain, and from Afric's golden shore! +And the young man's heart would fondly start, and the old man's eye would + smile, +As their thoughts would roam o'er the ocean foam to that lone and "holy isle!" + +Years passed by, and the orient sky blazed with a newborn light, +And Bethlehem's star shone bright afar o'er the lost world's darksome night; +And the diamond shrines from plundered mines, and the golden fanes of Jove, +Melted away in the blaze of day at the simple spellword--Love! +The light serene o'er that island green played with its saving beams, +And the fires of Baal waxed dim and pale like the stars in the morning streams! +And 'twas joy to hear, in the bright air clear, from out each sunny glade, +The tinkling bell, from the quiet cell, or the cloister's tranquil shade! + +A cloud of night o'er that dream so bright soon with its dark wing came, +And the happy scene of that island green was lost in blood and shame; +For its kings unjust betrayed their trust, and its queens, though fair, were + frail, +And a robber band, from a stranger land, with their war-whoops filled the gale; +A fatal spell on that green isle fell, a shadow of death and gloom +Passed withering o'er, from shore to shore, like the breath of the foul simoom; +And each green hill's side was crimson dyed, and each stream rolled red and + wild, +With the mingled blood of the brave and good--of mother and maid and child! + +Dark was my dream, though many a gleam of hope through that black night broke, +Like a star's bright form through a whistling storm, or the moon through a + midnight oak! +And many a time, with its wings sublime, and its robes of saffron light, +Would the morning rise on the eastern skies, but to vanish again in night! +For, in abject prayer, the people there still raised their fettered hands, +When the sense of right and the power to smite are the spirit that commands; +For those who would sneer at the mourner's tear, and heed not the suppliant's + sigh, +Would bow in awe to that first great law, a banded nation's cry! + +At length arose o'er that isle of woes a dawn with a steadier smile, +And in happy hour a voice of power awoke the slumbering isle! +And the people all obeyed the call of their chief's unsceptred hand, +Vowing to raise, as in ancient days, the name of their own dear land! +My dream grew bright as the sunbeam's light, as I watched that isle's career, +Through the varied scene and the joys serene of many a future year; +And, oh! what a thrill did my bosom fill as I gazed on a pillared pile, +Where a senate once more in power watched o'er the rights of that lone green + isle! +</pre> +<p><a name="p162" id="p162"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE PRICE OF FREEDOM.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Man of Ireland, heir of sorrow, + Wronged, insulted, scorned, oppressed, +Wilt thou never see that morrow + When thy weary heart may rest? +Lift thine eyes, thou outraged creature; + Nay, look up, for man thou art, +Man in form, and frame, and feature, + Why not act man's god-like part? + +Think, reflect, inquire, examine, + Is it for this God gave you birth-- +With the spectre look of famine, + Thus to creep along the earth? +Does this world contain no treasures + Fit for thee, as man, to wear?-- +Does this life abound in pleasures, + And thou askest not to share? + +Look! the nations are awaking, + Every chain that bound them burst! +At the crystal fountains slaking + With parched lips their fever thirst! +Ignorance the demon, fleeing, + Leaves unlocked the fount they sip; +Wilt thou not, thou wretched being, + Stoop and cool thy burning lip? + +History's lessons, if thou'lt read 'em, + All proclaim this truth to thee: +Knowledge is the price of freedom, + Know thyself, and thou art free! +Know, O man! thy proud vocation, + Stand erect, with calm, clear brow-- +Happy! happy were our nation, + If thou hadst that knowledge now! + +Know thy wretched, sad condition, + Know the ills that keep thee so; +Knowledge is the sole physician, + Thou wert healed if thou didst know! +Those who crush, and scorn, and slight thee, + Those to whom thou once wouldst kneel, +Were the foremost then to right thee, + Didst thou but feel as thou shouldst feel! + +Not as beggars lowly bending, + Not in sighs, and groans, and tears, +But a voice of thunder sending + Through thy tyrant brother's ears! +Tell him he is not thy master, + Tell him of man's common lot, +Feel life has but one disaster, + To be a slave, and know it not! + +Didst but prize what knowledge giveth, + Didst but know how blest is he +Who in Freedom's presence liveth, + Thou wouldst die, or else be free! +Round about he looks in gladness, + Joys in heaven, and earth, and sea, +Scarcely heaves a sigh of sadness, + Save in thoughts of such as thee! +</pre> +<p><a name="p164" id="p164"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE VOICE AND PEN.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Oh! the orator's voice is a mighty power, + As it echoes from shore to shore, +And the fearless pen has more sway o'er men + Than the murderous cannon's roar! +What burst the chain far over the main, + And brighten'd the captive's den? +'Twas the fearless pen and the voice of power, + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +The tyrant knaves who deny man's rights, + And the cowards who blanch with fear, +Exclaim with glee: "No arms have ye, + Nor cannon, nor sword, nor spear! +Your hills are ours--with our forts and towers + We are masters of mount and glen!" +Tyrants, beware! for the arms we bear + Are the Voice and the fearless Pen! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +Though your horsemen stand with their bridles in hand, + And your sentinels walk around! +Though your matches flare in the midnight air, + And your brazen trumpets sound! +Oh! the orator's tongue shall be heard among + These listening warrior men; +And they'll quickly say: "Why should we slay + Our friends of the Voice and Pen?" + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +When the Lord created the earth and sea, + The stars and the glorious sun, +The Godhead spoke, and the universe woke + And the mighty work was done! +Let a word be flung from the orator's tongue, + Or a drop from the fearless pen, +And the chains accursed asunder burst + That fettered the minds of men! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +Oh! these are the swords with which we fight, + The arms in which we trust, +Which no tyrant hand will dare to brand, + Which time cannot dim or rust! +When these we bore we triumphed before, + With these we'll triumph again! +And the world will say no power can stay + The Voice and the fearless Pen! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! +</pre> +<p><a name="p165" id="p165"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>"CEASE TO DO EVIL—LEARN TO DO WELL."<sup>105</sup></h3> +</center> +<pre> +Oh! thou whom sacred duty hither calls, + Some glorious hours in freedom's cause to dwell, +Read the mute lesson on thy prison walls, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well." + +If haply thou art one of genius vast, + Of generous heart, of mind sublime and grand, +Who all the spring-time of thy life has pass'd + Battling with tyrants for thy native land, +If thou hast spent thy summer as thy prime, + The serpent brood of bigotry to quell, +Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +If thy great heart beat warmly in the cause + Of outraged man, whate'er his race might be, +If thou hast preached the Christian's equal laws, + And stayed the lash beyond the Indian sea! +If at thy call a nation rose sublime, + If at thy voice seven million fetters fell,-- +Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +If thou hast seen thy country's quick decay, + And, like the prophet, raised thy saving hand, +And pointed out the only certain way + To stop the plague that ravaged o'er the land! +If thou hast summoned from an alien clime + Her banished senate here at home to dwell: +Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +Or if, perchance, a younger man thou art, + Whose ardent soul in throbbings doth aspire, +Come weal, come woe, to play the patriot's part + In the bright footsteps of thy glorious sire +If all the pleasures of life's youthful time + Thou hast abandoned for the martyr's cell, +Do thou repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +Or art thou one whom early science led + To walk with Newton through the immense of heaven, +Who soared with Milton, and with Mina bled, + And all thou hadst in freedom's cause hast given? +Oh! fond enthusiast--in the after time + Our children's children of thy worth shall tell-- +England proclaims thy honesty a crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +Or art thou one whose strong and fearless pen + Roused the Young Isle, and bade it dry its tears, +And gathered round thee ardent, gifted men, + The hope of Ireland in the coming years? +Who dares in prose and heart-awakening rhyme, + Bright hopes to breathe and bitter truths to tell? +Oh! dangerous criminal, repent thy crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +"Cease to do evil"--ay! ye madmen, cease! + Cease to love Ireland--cease to serve her well; +Make with her foes a foul and fatal peace, + And quick will ope your darkest, dreariest cell. +"Learn to do well"--ay! learn to betray, + Learn to revile the land in which you dwell +England will bless you on your altered way + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" +</pre> +<p><sup>105</sup> This inscription is on the front of Richmond +Penitentiary, Dublin, in which O'Connell and the +other political prisoners were confined in the year 1844.</p> +<p><a name="p167" id="p167"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE LIVING LAND.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +We have mourned and sighed for our buried pride,[106] + We have given what nature gives, +A manly tear o'er a brother's bier, + But now for the Land that lives! +He who passed too soon, in his glowing noon, + The hope of our youthful band, +From heaven's blue wall doth seem to call + "Think, think of your Living Land! +I dwell serene in a happier scene, + Ye dwell in a Living Land!" + +Yes! yes! dear shade, thou shalt be obeyed, + We must spend the hour that flies, +In no vain regret for the sun that has set, + But in hope for another to rise; +And though it delay with its guiding ray, + We must each, with his little brand, +Like sentinels light through the dark, dark night, + The steps of our Living Land. +She needeth our care in the chilling air-- + Our old, dear Living Land! + +Yet our breasts will throb, and the tears will throng + To our eyes for many a day, +For an eagle in strength and a lark in song + Was the spirit that passed away. +Though his heart be still as a frozen rill, + And pulseless his glowing hand, +We must struggle the more for that old green shore + He was making a Living Land. +By him we have lost, at whatever the cost, + She must be a Living Land! + +A Living Land, such as Nature plann'd, + When she hollowed our harbours deep, +When she bade the grain wave o'er the plain, + And the oak wave over the steep: +When she bade the tide roll deep and wide, + From its source to the ocean strand, +Oh! it was not to slaves she gave these waves, + But to sons of a Living Land! +Sons who have eyes and hearts to prize + The worth of a Living Land! + +Oh! when shall we lose the hostile hues, + That have kept us so long apart? +Or cease from the strife, that is crushing the life + From out of our mother's heart? +Could we lay aside our doubts and our pride, + And join in a common band, +One hour would see our country free, + A young and a Living Land! +With a nation's heart and a nation's part, + A free and a Living Land! +</pre> +<p><sup>106</sup> Thomas Davis.</p> +<p><a name="p169" id="p169"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE DEAD TRIBUNE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> + The awful shadow of a great man's death + Falls on this land, so sad and dark before-- + Dark with the famine and the fever breath, + And mad dissensions knawing at its core. + Oh! let us hush foul discord's maniac roar, + And make a mournful truce, however brief, + Like hostile armies when the day is o'er! + And thus devote the night-time of our grief +To tears and prayers for him, the great departed chief. + + In "Genoa the Superb" O'Connell dies-- + That city of Columbus by the sea, + Beneath the canopy of azure skies, + As high and cloudless as his fame must be. + Is it mere chance or higher destiny + That brings these names together? One, the bold + Wanderer in ways that none had trod but he-- + The other, too, exploring paths untold; +One a new world would seek, and one would save the old! + + With childlike incredulity we cry, + It cannot be that great career is run, + It cannot be but in the eastern sky + Again will blaze that mighty world-watch'd sun! + Ah! fond deceit, the east is dark and dun, + Death's black, impervious cloud is on the skies; + Toll the deep bell, and fire the evening gun, + Let honest sorrow moisten manly eyes: +A glorious sun has set that never more shall rise! + + Brothers, who struggle yet in Freedom's van, + Where'er your forces o'er the world are spread, + The last great champion of the rights of man-- + The last great Tribune of the world is dead! + Join in our grief, and let our tears be shed + Without reserve or coldness on his bier; + Look on his life as on a map outspread-- + His fight for freedom--freedom far and near-- +And if a speck should rise, oh! hide it with a tear! + + To speak his praises little need have we + To tell the wonders wrought within these waves + Enough, so well he taught us to be free, + That even to him we could not kneel as slaves. + Oh! let our tears be fast-destroying graves, + Where doubt and difference may for ever lie, + Buried and hid as in sepulchral caves; + And let love's fond and reverential eye +Alone behold the star new risen in the sky! + + But can it be, that well-known form is stark? + Can it be true, that burning heart is chill? + Oh! can it be that twinkling eye is dark? + And that great thunder voice is hush'd and still? + Never again upon the famous hill + Will he preside as monarch of the land, + With myriad myriads subject to his will; + Never again shall raise that powerful hand, +To rouse, to warm, to check, to kindle, and command! + + The twinkling eye, so full of changeful light, + Is dimmed and darkened in a dread eclipse; + The withering scowl, the smile so sunny bright, + Alike have faded from his voiceless lips. + The words of power, the mirthful, merry quips, + The mighty onslaught, and the quick reply, + The biting taunts that cut like stinging whips, + The homely truth, the lessons grave and high, +All, all are with the past, but cannot, shall not die! +</pre> +<p><a name="p171" id="p171"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>A MYSTERY.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing, +They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing; +They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing, +And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing! + + God of Justice! God of Power! + Do we dream? Can it be? + In this land, at this hour, + With the blossom on the tree, + In the gladsome month of May, + When the young lambs play, + When Nature looks around + On her waking children now, + The seed within the ground, + The bud upon the bough? + Is it right, is it fair, + That we perish of despair + In this land, on this soil, + Where our destiny is set, + Which we cultured with our toil, + And watered with our sweat? + + We have ploughed, we have sown + But the crop was not our own; + We have reaped, but harpy hands + Swept the harvest from our lands; + We were perishing for food, + When, lo! in pitying mood, + Our kindly rulers gave + The fat fluid of the slave, + While our corn filled the manger + Of the war-horse of the stranger! + + God of Mercy! must this last? + Is this land preordained + For the present and the past, + And the future, to be chained, + To be ravaged, to be drained, + To be robbed, to be spoiled, + To be hushed, to be whipt, + Its soaring pinions clipt, + And its every effort foiled? + + Do our numbers multiply + But to perish and to die? + Is this all our destiny below, + That our bodies, as they rot, + May fertilise the spot + Where the harvests of the stranger grow? + + If this be, indeed, our fate, + Far, far better now, though late, +That we seek some other land and try some other zone; + The coldest, bleakest shore + Will surely yield us more +Than the store-house of the stranger that we dare not call our own. + + Kindly brothers of the West, + Who from Liberty's full breast +Have fed us, who are orphans, beneath a step-dame's frown, + Behold our happy state, + And weep your wretched fate +That you share not in the splendours of our empire and our crown! + + Kindly brothers of the East, + Thou great tiara'd priest, +Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth-- + Or thou who bear'st control + Over golden Istambol, +Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our dearth, + + Turn here your wondering eyes, + Call your wisest of the wise, +Your Muftis and your ministers, your men of deepest lore; + Let the sagest of your sages + Ope our island's mystic pages, +And explain unto your Highness the wonders of our shore. + + A fruitful teeming soil, + Where the patient peasants toil +Beneath the summer's sun and the watery winter sky-- + Where they tend the golden grain + Till it bends upon the plain, +Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die. + + Where they watch their flocks increase, + And store the snowy fleece, +Till they send it to their masters to be woven o'er the waves; + Where, having sent their meat + For the foreigner to eat, +Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into their graves. + +'Tis for this they are dying where the golden corn is growing, +'Tis for this they are dying where the crowded herds are lowing, +'Tis for this they are dying where the streams of life are flowing, +And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing. +</pre> +<p><a name="p174a" id="p174a"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2><i>Sonnets.</i></h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +<h3>AFTER READING J. T. GILBERT'S "THE HISTORY OF DUBLIN."</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Long have I loved the beauty of thy streets, + Fair Dublin: long, with unavailing vows, + Sigh'd to all guardian deities who rouse +The spirits of dead nations to new heats +Of life and triumph:--vain the fond conceits, + Nestling like eaves-warmed doves 'neath patriot brows! + Vain as the "Hope," that from thy Custom-House +Looks o'er the vacant bay in vain for fleets. + Genius alone brings back the days of yore: +Look! look, what life is in these quaint old shops-- +The loneliest lanes are rattling with the roar + of coach and chair; fans, feathers, flambeaus, fops, +Flutter and flicker through yon open door, + Where Handel's hand moves the great organ stops.[107] +</pre> +<p><i>March 11th, 1856.</i></p> +<p><sup>107</sup> It is stated that the "Messiah" was first publicly + performed in Dublin.  See Gilbert's "History of Dublin," vol. i. + p. 75, and Townsend's "Visit of Handel to Dublin," p. 64.</p> +<p><a name="p174b" id="p174b"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.</h3> +<p>(Dedication of Calderon's "Chrysanthus and Daria.")</p> +</center> +<pre> +Pensive within the Coliseum's walls + I stood with thee, O Poet of the West!-- + The day when each had been a welcome guest +In San Clemente's venerable halls:-- +With what delight my memory now recalls + That hour of hours, that flower of all the rest, + When, with thy white beard falling on thy breast, + That noble head, that well might serve as Paul's +In some divinest vision of the saint + By Raffael dreamed--I heard thee mourn the dead-- + The martyred host who fearless there, though faint, +Walked the rough road that up to heaven's gate led: + These were the pictures Calderon loved to paint + In golden hues that here perchance have fled. + +Yet take the colder copy from my hand, + Not for its own but for the Master's sake; + Take it, as thou, returning home, wilt take + From that divinest soft Italian land +Fixed shadows of the beautiful and grand + In sunless pictures that the sun doth make-- + Reflections that may pleasant memories wake + Of all that Raffael touched, or Angelo planned:-- +As these may keep what memory else might lose, + So may this photograph of verse impart + An image, though without the native hues +Of Calderon's fire, and yet with Calderon's art, + Of what thou lovest through a kindred muse + That sings in heaven, yet nestles in the heart. +</pre> +<p><i>Dublin, August 24th, 1869.</i></p> +<p><a name="p175" id="p175"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO KENELM HENRY DIGBY,</h3> +<h5>AUTHOR OF "MORES CATHOLICI," "THE BROADSTONE +OF HONOUR," "COMPITUM," ETC.</h5> +<p><i>(On being presented by him with a copy, painted by +himself, of a rare Portrait of Calderon.)</i></p> +</center> +<pre> +How can I thank thee for this gift of thine, + Digby, the dawn and day-star of our age, + Forerunner thou of many a saint and sage +Who since have fought and conquer'd 'neath the Sign? +Thou hast left, as in a sacred shrine-- + What shrine more pure than thy unspotted page?-- + The priceless relics, as a heritage, +Of loftiest thoughts and lessons most divine. + Poet and teacher of sublimest lore, +Thou scornest not the painter's mimic skill, +And thus hath come, obedient to thy will + The outward form that Calderon's spirit wore. +Ah! happy canvas that two glories fill, + Where Calderon lives 'neath Digby's hand once more. +</pre> +<p><i>October 15th, 1878.</i></p> +<p><a name="p176" id="p176"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO ETHNA.<sup>108</sup></h3> +</center> +<pre> +Ethna, to cull sweet flowers divinely fair, + To seek for gems of such transparent light + As would not be unworthy to unite +Round thy fair brow, and through thy dark-brown hair, +I would that I had wings to cleave the air, + In search of some far region of delight, + That back to thee from that adventurous flight, +A glorious wreath my happy hands might bear; + Soon would the sweetest Persian rose be thine-- +Soon would the glory of Golconda's mine +Flash on thy forehead, like a star--ah! me, + In place of these, I bring, with trembling hand, +These fading wild flowers from our native land-- + These simple pebbles from the Irish Sea! +</pre> +<p><sup>108</sup> This sonnet to the poet's wife + was prefixed as a dedication to his first volume of poems.</p> +<p><a name="p177" id="p177"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2><i>Underglimpses.</i></h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +<h3>THE ARRAYING.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The blue-eyed maidens of the sea +With trembling haste approach the lee, +So small and smooth, they seem to be +Not waves, but children of the waves, +And as each linkèd circle laves +The crescent marge of creek and bay, +Their mingled voices all repeat-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +We come to bathe thy snow-white feet. + +We bring thee treasures rich and rare, +White pearl to deck thy golden hair, +And coral beads, so smoothly fair +And free from every flaw or speck; +That they may lie upon thy neck, +This sweetest day--this brightest day +That ever on the green world shone-- + O lovely May, O long'd-for May! +As if thy neck and thee were one. + +We bring thee from our distant home +Robes of the pure white-woven foam, +And many a pure, transparent comb, +Formed of the shells the tortoise plaits, +By Babelmandeb's coral-straits; +And amber vases, with inlay +Of roseate pearl time never dims-- + O lovely May! O longed-for May! +Wherein to lave thine ivory limbs. + +We bring, as sandals for thy feet, +Beam-broidered waves, like those that greet, +With green and golden chrysolite, +The setting sun's departing beams, +When all the western water seems +Like emeralds melted by his ray, +So softly bright, so gently warm-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +That thou canst trust thy tender form. + +And lo! the ladies of the hill, +The rippling stream, and sparkling rill, +With rival speed, and like good will, +Come, bearing down the mountain's side +The liquid crystals of the tide, +In vitreous vessels clear as they, +And cry, from each worn, winding path: + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +We come to lead thee to the bath. + +And we have fashioned, for thy sake, +Mirrors more bright than art could make-- +The silvery-sheeted mountain lake +Hangs in its carvèd frame of rocks, +Wherein to dress thy dripping locks, +Or bind the dewy curls that stray +Thy trembling breast meandering down-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +Within their self-woven crown. + +Arise, O May! arise and see +Thine emerald robes are held for thee +By many a hundred-handed tree, +Who lift from all the fields around +The verdurous velvet from the ground, +And then the spotless vestments lay, +Smooth-folded o'er their outstretch'd arms-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +Wherein to fold thy virgin charms. + +Thy robes are stiff with golden bees, +Dotted with gems more bright than these, +And scented by each perfumed breeze +That, blown from heaven's re-open'd bowers, +Become the souls of new-born flowers, +Who thus their sacred birth betray; +Heavenly thou art, nor less should be-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +The favour'd forms that wait on thee. + +The moss to guard thy feet is spread, +The wreaths are woven for thy head, +The rosy curtains of thy bed +Become transparent in the blaze +Of the strong sun's resistless gaze: +Then lady, make no more delay, +The world still lives, though spring be dead-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +And thou must rule and reign instead. + +The lady from her bed arose, +Her bed the leaves the moss-bud blows +Herself a lily in that rose; +The maidens of the streams and sands +Bathe some her feet and some her hands: +And some the emerald robes display; +Her dewy locks were then upcurled, + And lovely May--the long'd-for May-- +Was crown'd the Queen of all the World! +</pre> +<p><a name="p180" id="p180"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE SEARCH.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Let us seek the modest May, + She is down in the glen, + Hiding and abiding + From the common gaze of men, + Where the silver streamlet crosses + O'er the smooth stones green with mosses, + And glancing and dancing, + Goes singing on its way-- +We shall find the modest maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the merry May, + She is up on the hill, + Laughing and quaffing + From the fountain and the rill. + Where the southern zephyr sprinkles, + Like bright smiles on age's wrinkles, + O'er the edges and ledges + Of the rocks, the wild flowers gay-- +We shall find the merry maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the musing May, + She is deep in the wood, + Viewing and pursuing + The beautiful and good. + Where the grassy bank receding, + Spreads its quiet couch for reading + The pages of the sages, + And the poet's lyric lay-- +We shall find the musing maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the mirthful May, + She is out on the strand + Racing and chasing + The ripples o'er the sand. + Where the warming waves discover + All the treasures that they cover, + Whitening and brightening + The pebbles for her play-- +We shall find the mirthful maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the wandering May, + She is off to the plain, + Finding the winding + Of the labyrinthine lane. + She is passing through its mazes + While the hawthorn, as it gazes + With grief, lets its leaflets + Whiten all the way-- +We shall find the wandering maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek her in the ray-- + Let us track her by the rill-- + Wending ascending + The slopings of the hill. + Where the robin from the copses + Breathes a love-note, and then drops his + Trilling, till, willing, + His mate responds his lay-- +We shall find the listening maiden there to-day. + +But why seek her far away? + Like a young bird in its nest, + She is warming and forming + Her dwelling in her breast. + While the heart she doth repose on, + Like the down the sunwind blows on, + Gloweth, yet showeth + The trembling of the ray-- +We shall find the happy maiden there to-day. +</pre> +<p><a name="p181" id="p181"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE TIDINGS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +A bright beam came to my window frame, + This sweet May morn, +And it said to the cold, hard glass: + Oh! let me pass, +For I have good news to tell, +The queen of the dewy dell, + The beautiful May is born! + +Warm with the race, through the open space, + This sweet May morn, +Came a soft wind out of the skies: + And it said to my heart--Arise! +Go forth from the winter's fire, +For the child of thy long desire, + The beautiful May is born! + +The bright beam glanced and the soft wind danced, + This sweet May morn, +Over my cheek and over my eyes; + And I said with a glad surprise: +Oh! lead me forth, ye blessed twain, +Over the hill and over the plain, + Where the beautiful May is born. + +Through the open door leaped the beam before + This sweet May morn, +And the soft wind floated along, + Like a poet's song, +Warm from his heart and fresh from his brain; +And they led me over the mount and plain, + To the beautiful May new-born. + +My guide so bright and my guide so light, + This sweet May morn, +Led me along o'er the grassy ground, + And I knew by each joyous sight and sound, +The fields so green and the skies so gay, +That heaven and earth kept holiday, + That the beautiful May was born. + +Out of the sea with their eyes of glee, + This sweet May morn, +Came the blue waves hastily on; + And they murmuring cried--Thou happy one! +Show us, O Earth! thy darling child, +For we heard far out on the ocean wild, + That the beautiful May was born. + +The wingèd flame to the rosebud came, + This sweet May morn, +And it said to the flower--Prepare! + Lay thy nectarine bosom bare; +Full soon, full soon, thou must rock to rest, +And nurse and feed on thy glowing breast, + The beautiful May now born. + +The gladsome breeze through the trembling trees, + This sweet May morn, +Went joyously on from bough to bough; + And it said to the red-branched plum--O thou, +Cover with mimic pearls and gems, +And with silver bells, thy coral stems, + For the beautiful May now born. + +Under the eaves and through the leaves + This sweet May morn, +The soft wind whispering flew: + And it said to the listening birds--Oh, you, +Sweet choristers of the skies, +Awaken your tenderest lullabies, + For the beautiful May now born. + +The white cloud flew to the uttermost blue, + This sweet May morn, +It bore, like a gentle carrier-dove, + The blessèd news to the realms above; +While its sister coo'd in the midst of the grove, +And within my heart the spirit of love, + That the beautiful May was born! +</pre> +<p><a name="p183" id="p183"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>WELCOME, MAY.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Welcome, May! welcome, May! +Thou hast been too long away, + All the widow'd wintry hours +Wept for thee, gentle May; + But the fault was only ours-- +We were sad when thou wert gay! + +Welcome, May! welcome, May! +We are wiser far to-day-- + Fonder, too, than we were then. +Gentle May! joyous May! + Now that thou art come again, +We perchance may make thee stay. + +Welcome, May! welcome, May! +Everything kept holiday + Save the human heart alone. +Mirthful May! gladsome May! + We had cares and thou hadst none +When thou camest last this way! + +When thou camest last this way +Blossoms bloomed on every spray, + Buds on barren boughs were born-- +Fertile May! fruitful May! + Like the rose upon the thorn +Cannot grief awhile be gay? + +'Tis not for the golden ray, +Or the flowers that strew thy way, + O immortal One! thou art +Here to-day, gentle May-- + 'Tis to man's ungrateful heart +That thy fairy footsteps stray. + +'Tis to give that living clay +Flowers that ne'er can fade away-- + Fond remembrances of bliss; +And a foretaste, mystic May, + Of the life that follows this, +Full of joys that last alway! + +Other months are cold and gray, +Some are bright, but what are they? + Earth may take the whole eleven-- +Hopeful May--happy May! + Thine the borrowed month of heaven +Cometh thence and points the way. + +Wingèd minstrels come and play +Through the woods their roundelay; + Who can tell but only thou, +Spirit-ear'd, inspirèd May, + On the bud-embow'rèd bough +What the happy lyrists say? + +Is the burden of their lay +Love's desire, or Love's decay? + Are there not some fond regrets +Mix'd with these, divinest May, + For the sun that never sets +Down the everlasting day? + +But upon thy wondrous way +Mirth alone should dance and play-- + No regrets, how fond they be, +E'er should wound the ear of May-- + Bow before her, flower and tree! +Nor, my heart, do thou delay. +</pre> +<p><a name="p185" id="p185"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE MEETING OF THE FLOWERS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +There is within this world of ours + Full many a happy home and hearth; + What time, the Saviour's blessed birth +Makes glad the gloom of wintry hours. + +When back from severed shore and shore, + And over seas that vainly part, + The scattered embers of the heart +Glow round the parent hearth once more. + +When those who now are anxious men, + Forget their growing years and cares; + Forget the time-flakes on their hairs, +And laugh, light-hearted boys again. + +When those who now are wedded wives, + By children of their own embraced, + Recall their early joys, and taste +Anew the childhood of their lives. + +And the old people--the good sire + And kindly parent-mother--glow + To feel their children's children throw +Fresh warmth around the Christmas fire. + +When in the sweet colloquial din, + Unheard the sullen sleet-winds shout; + And though the winter rage without, +The social summer reigns within. + +But in this wondrous world of ours + Are other circling kindred chords, + Binding poor harmless beasts and birds, +And the fair family of flowers. + +That family that meet to-day + From many a foreign field and glen, + For what is Christmas-tide with men +Is with the flowers the time of May. + +Back to the meadows of the West, + Back to their natal fields they come; + And as they reach their wished-for home, +The Mother folds them to her breast. + +And as she breathes, with balmy sighs, + A fervent blessing over them, + The tearful, glistening dews begem +The parents' and the children's eyes. + +She spreads a carpet for their feet, + And mossy pillows for their heads, + And curtains round their fairy beds +With blossom-broidered branches sweet. + +She feeds them with ambrosial food, + And fills their cups with nectared wine; + And all her choristers combine +To sing their welcome from the wood: + +And all that love can do is done, + As shown to them in countless ways: + She kindles to the brighter blaze +The fireside of the world--the sun. + +And with her own soft, trembling hands, + In many a calm and cool retreat, + She laves the dust that soils their feet +In coming from the distant lands. + +Or, leading down some sinuous path, + Where the shy stream's encircling heights + Shut out all prying eyes, invites +Her lily daughters to the bath. + +There, with a mother's harmless pride, + Admires them sport the waves among: + Now lay their ivory limbs along +The buoyant bosom of the tide. + +Now lift their marble shoulders o'er + The rippling glass, or sink with fear, + As if the wind approaching near +Were some wild wooer from the shore. + +Or else the parent turns to these, + The younglings born beneath her eye, + And hangs the baby-buds close by, +In wind-rocked cradles from the trees. + +And as the branches fall and rise, + Each leafy-folded swathe expands: + And now are spread their tiny hands, +And now are seen their starry eyes. + +But soon the feast concludes the day, + And yonder in the sun-warmed dell, + The happy circle meet to tell +Their labours since the bygone May. + +A bright-faced youth is first to raise + His cheerful voice above the rest, + Who bears upon his hardy breast +A golden star with silver rays:[109] + +Worthily won, for he had been + A traveller in many a land, + And with his slender staff in hand +Had wandered over many a green: + +Had seen the Shepherd Sun unpen + Heaven's fleecy flocks, and let them stray + Over the high-pealed Himalay, +Till night shut up the fold again: + +Had sat upon a mossy ledge, + O'er Baiæ in the morning's beams, + Or where the sulphurous crater steams +Had hung suspended from the edge: + +Or following its devious course + Up many a weary winding mile, + Had tracked the long, mysterious Nile +Even to its now no-fabled source: + +Resting, perchance, as on he strode, + To see the herded camels pass + Upon the strips of wayside grass +That line with green the dust-white road. + +Had often closed his weary lids + In oases that deck the waste, + Or in the mighty shadows traced +By the eternal pyramids. + +Had slept within an Arab's tent, + Pitched for the night beneath a palm, + Or when was heard the vesper psalm, +With the pale nun in worship bent: + +Or on the moonlit fields of France, + When happy village maidens trod + Lightly the fresh and verdurous sod, +There was he seen amid the dance: + +Yielding with sympathizing stem + To the quick feet that round him flew, + Sprang from the ground as they would do, +Or sank unto the earth with them: + +Or, childlike, played with girl and boy + By many a river's bank, and gave + His floating body to the wave, +Full many a time to give them joy. + +These and a thousand other tales + The traveller told, and welcome found; + These were the simple tales went round +The happy circles in the vales. + +Keeping reserved with conscious pride + His noblest act, his crowning feat, + How he had led even Humboldt's feet +Up Chimborazo's mighty side. + +Guiding him through the trackless snow, + By sheltered clefts of living soil, + Sweet'ning the fearless traveller's toil, +With memories of the world below. + +Such was the hardy Daisy's tale, + And then the maidens of the group-- + Lilies, whose languid heads down droop +Over their pearl-white shoulders pale-- + +Told, when the genial glow of June + Had passed, they sought still warmer climes + And took beneath the verdurous limes +Their sweet siesta through the noon: + +And seeking still, with fond pursuit, + The phantom Health, which lures and wiles + Its followers to the shores and isles +Of amber waves, and golden fruit. + +There they had seen the orange grove + Enwreath its gold with buds of white, + As if themselves had taken flight, +And settled on the boughs above. + +There kiss'd by every rosy mouth + And press'd to every gentle breast, + These pallid daughters of the West +Reigned in the sunshine of the South. + +And thoughtful of the things divine, + Were oft by many an altar found, + Standing like white-robed angels round +The precincts of some sacred shrine. + +And Violets, with dark blue eyes, + Told how they spent the winter time, + In Andalusia's Eden clime, +Or 'neath Italia's kindred skies. + +Chiefly when evening's golden gloom + Veil'd Rome's serenest ether soft, + Bending in thoughtful musings oft, +Above the lost Alastor's tomb; + +Or the twin-poet's; he who sings + "A thing of beauty never dies," + Paying them back in fragrant sighs, +The love they bore all loveliest things. + +The flower[110] whose bronzèd cheeks recalls + The incessant beat of wind and sun, + Spoke of the lore his search had won +Upon Pompeii's rescued walls. + +How, in his antiquarian march, + He crossed the tomb-strewn plain of Rome, + Sat on some prostrate plinth, or clomb +The Coliseum's topmost arch. + +And thence beheld in glad amaze + What Nero's guilty eyes, aloof, + Drank in from off his golden roof-- +The sun-bright city all ablaze: + +Ablaze by day with solar fires-- + Ablaze by night with lunar beams, + With lambent lustre on its streams, +And golden glories round its spires! + +Thence he beheld that wondrous dome, + That, rising o'er the radiant town, + Circles, with Art's eternal crown, +The still imperial brow of Rome. + +Nor was the Marigold remiss, + But told how in her crown of gold + She sat, like Persia's king of old, +High o'er the shores of Salamis; + +And saw, against the morning sky, + The white-sailed fleets their wings display; + And ere the tranquil close of day, +Fade, like the Persian's from her eye. + +Fleets, with their white flags all unfurl'd, + Inscribed with "Commerce," and with "Peace," + Bearing no threatened ill to Greece, +But mutual good to all the world. + +And various other flowers were seen: + Cowslip and Oxlip, and the tall + Tulip, whose grateful hearts recall +The winter homes where they had been. + +Some in the sunny vales, beneath + The sheltering hills; and some, whose eyes + Were gladdened by the southern skies, +High up amid the blooming heath. + +Meek, modest flowers, by poets loved, + Sweet Pansies, with their dark eyes fringed + With silken lashes finely tinged, +That trembled if a leaf but moved: + +And some in gardens where the grass + Mossed o'er the green quadrangle's breast, + There dwelt each flower, a welcome guest, +In crystal palaces of glass: + +Shown as a beauteous wonder there, + By beauty's hands to beauty's eyes, + Breathing what mimic art supplies, +The genial glow of sun-warm air. + +Nor were the absent ones forgot, + Those whom a thousand cares detained, + Those whom the links of duty chained +Awhile from this their natal spot. + +One, who is labour's useful tracks + Is proudly eminent, who roams + The providence of humble homes-- +The blue-eyed, fair-haired, friendly Flax: + +Giving himself to cheer and light + The cottier's else o'ershadowing murk, + Filling his hand with cheerful work, +And all his being with delight: + +And one, the loveliest and the last, + For whom they waited day by day, + All through the merry month of May, +Till one-and-thirty days had passed. + +And when, at length, the longed-for noon + Of night arched o'er th' expectant green + The Rose, their sister and their queen-- +Came on the joyous wings of June: + +And when was heard the gladsome sound, + And when was breath'd her beauteous name, + Unnumbered buds, like lamps of flame, +Gleamed from the hedges all around: + +Where she had been, the distant clime, + The orient realm their sceptre sways, + The poet's pen may paint and praise +Hereafter in his simple rhyme. +</pre> +<p><sup>109</sup> The Daisy.</p> +<p><sup>110</sup> The Wallflower.</p> +<p><a name="p193" id="p193"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE PROGRESS OF THE ROSE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The days of old, the good old days, + Whose misty memories haunt us still, +Demand alike our blame and praise, + And claim their shares of good and ill. + +They had strong faith in things unseen, + But stronger in the things they saw +Revenge for Mercy's pitying mien, + And lordly Right for equal Law. + +'Tis true the cloisters all throughout + The valleys rais'd their peaceful towers, +And their sweet bells ne'er wearied out + In telling of the tranquil hours. + +But from the craggy hills above, + A shadow darken'd o'er the sward; +For there--a vulture to this dove-- + Hung the rude fortress of the lord; + +Whence oft the ravening bird of prey + Descending, to his eyry wild +Bore, with exulting cries, away + The powerless serf's dishonour'd child. + +Then Safety lit with partial beams + But the high-castled peaks of Force, +And Polity revers'd its streams, + And bade them flow but for their Source. + +That Source from which, meandering down, + A thousand streamlets circle now; +For then the monarch's glorious crown + But girt the most rapacious brow. + +But individual Force is dead, + And link'd Opinion late takes birth; +And now a woman's gentle head + Supports the mightiest crown on earth. + +A pleasing type of all the change + Permitted to our eyes to see, +When she herself is free to range + Throughout the realm her rule makes free. + +Not prison'd in a golden cage, + To sigh or sing her lonely state, +A show for youth or doating age, + With idiot eyes to contemplate. + +But when the season sends a thrill + To ev'ry heart that lives and moves, +She seeks the freedom of the hill, + Or shelter of the noontide groves. + +There, happy with her chosen mate, + And circled by her chirping brood, +Forgets the pain of being great + In the mere bliss of being good. + +And thus the festive summer yields + No sight more happy, none so gay, +As when amid her subject-fields + She wanders on from day to day. + +Resembling her, whom proud and fond, + The bard hath sung of--she of old, +Who bore upon her snow-white wand, + All Erin through, the ring of gold. + +Thus, from her castles coming forth, + She wanders many a summer hour, +Bearing the ring of private worth + Upon the silver wand of Power. + +Thus musing, while around me flew + Sweet airs from fancy's amaranth bowers, +Methought, what this fair queen doth do, + Hath yearly done the queen of flowers. + +The beauteous queen of all the flowers, + Whose faintest sigh is like a spell, +Was born in Eden's sinless bowers + Long ere our primal parents fell. + +There in a perfect form she grew, + Nor felt decay, nor tasted death; +Heaven was reflected in her hue, + And heaven's own odours filled her breath. + +And ere the angel of the sword + Drove thence the founders of our race, +They knelt before him, and implor'd + Some relic of that radiant place: + +Some relic that, while time would last, + Should make men weep their fatal sin; +Proof of the glory that was past, + And type of that they yet might win. + +The angel turn'd, and ere his hands + The gates of bliss for ever close, +Pluck'd from the fairest tree that stands + Within heaven's walls--the peerless rose. + +And as he gave it unto them, + Let fall a tear upon its leaves-- +The same celestial liquid gem + We oft perceive on dewy eves. + +Grateful the hapless twain went forth, + The golden portals backward whirl'd, +Then first they felt the biting north, + And all the rigour of this world. + +Then first the dreadful curse had power + To chill the life-streams at their source, +Till e'en the sap within the flower + Grew curdled in its upward course. + +They twin'd their trembling hands across + Their trembling breasts against the drift, +Then sought some little mound of moss + Wherein to lay their precious gift. + +Some little soft and mossy mound, + Wherein the flower might rest till morn; +In vain! God's curse was on the ground, + For through the moss out gleam'd the thorn! + +Out gleam'd the forkèd plant, as if + The serpent tempter, in his rage, +Had put his tongue in every leaf + To mock them through their pilgrimage. + +They did their best; their hands eras'd + The thorns of greater strength and size; +Then 'mid the softer moss they plac'd + The exiled flower of paradise. + +The plant took root; the beams and showers + Came kindly, and its fair head rear'd; +But lo! around its heaven of flowers + The thorns and moss of earth appear'd. + +Type of the greater change that then + Upon our hapless nature fell, +When the degenerate hearts of men + Bore sin and all the thorns of hell. + +Happy, indeed, and sweet our pain, + However torn, however tost, +If, like the rose, our hearts retain + Some vestige of the heaven we've lost. + +Where she upon this colder sphere + Found shelter first, she there abode; +Her native bowers, unseen were near, + And near her still Euphrates flowed-- + +Brilliantly flow'd; but, ah! how dim, + Compar'd to what its light had been;-- +As if the fiery cherubim + Let pass the tide, but kept its sheen. + +At first she liv'd and reigned alone, + No lily-maidens yet had birth; +No turban'd tulips round her throne + Bow'd with their foreheads to the earth. + +No rival sisters had she yet-- + She with the snowy forehead fringed +With blushes; nor the sweet brunette + Whose cheek the yellow sun has ting'd. + +Nor all the harbingers of May, + Nor all the clustering joys of June: +Uncarpeted the bare earth lay, + Unhung the branches' gay festoon. + +But Nature came in kindly mood, + And gave her kindred of her own, +Knowing full well it is not good + For man or flower to be alone. + +Long in her happy court she dwelt, + In floral games and feasts of mirth, +Until her heart kind wishes felt + To share her joy with all the earth. + +To go from longing land to land + A stateless queen, a welcome guest, +O'er hill and vale, by sea and strand, + From North to South, and East to West. + +And thus it is that every year, + Ere Autumn dons his russet robe, +She calls her unseen charioteer, + And makes her progress through the globe. + +First, sharing in the month-long feast-- + "The Feast of Roses"--in whose light +And grateful joy, the first and least + Of all her subjects reunite. + +She sends her heralds on before: + The bee rings out his bugle bold, +The daisy spreads her marbled floor, + The buttercup her cloth of gold. + +The lark leaps up into the sky, + To watch her coming from afar; +The larger moon descends more nigh, + More lingering lags the morning star. + +From out the villages and towns, + From all of mankind's mix'd abodes, +The people, by the lawns and downs, + Go meet her on the winding roads. + +And some would bear her in their hands, + And some would press her to their breast, +And some would worship where she stands, + And some would claim her as their guest. + +Her gracious smile dispels the gloom + Of many a love-sick girl and boy; +Her very presence in a room + Doth fill the languid air with joy. + +Her breath is like a fragrant tune, + She is the soul of every spot; +Gives nature to the rich saloon, + And splendour to the peasant's cot. + +Her mission is to calm and soothe, + And purely glad life's every stage; +Her garlands grace the brow of youth, + And hide the hollow lines of age. + +But to the poet she belongs, + By immemorial ties of love;-- +Herself a folded book of songs, + Dropp'd from the angel's hands above. + +Then come and make his heart thy home, + For thee it opes, for thee it glows;-- +Type of ideal beauty, come! + Wonder of Nature! queenly Rose! +</pre> +<p><a name="p200" id="p200"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE BATH OF THE STREAMS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Down unto the ocean, +Trembling with emotion, +Panting at the notion, + See the rivers run-- +In the golden weather, +Tripping o'er the heather, +Laughing all together-- + Madcaps every one. + +Like a troop of girls +In their loosen'd curls, +See, the concourse whirls + Onward wild with glee; +List their tuneful tattle, +Hear their pretty prattle, +How they'll love to battle + With the assailing sea. + +See, the winds pursue them, +See, the willows woo them +See, the lakelets view them + Wistfully afar, +With a wistful wonder +Down the green slopes under, +Wishing, too, to thunder + O'er their prison bar. + +Wishing, too, to wander +By the sea-waves yonder, +There awhile to squander + All their silvery stores, +There awhile forgetting +All their vain regretting +When their foam went fretting + Round the rippling shores. + +Round the rocky region, +Whence their prison'd legion, +Oft and oft besieging, + Vainly sought to break, +Vainly sought to throw them +O'er the vales below them, +Through the clefts that show them + Paths they dare not take. + +But the swift streams speed them +In the might of freedom, +Down the paths that lead them + Joyously along. +Blinding green recesses +With their floating tresses, +Charming wildernesses + With their murmuring song. + +Now the streams are gliding +With a sweet abiding-- +Now the streams are hiding + 'Mid the whispering reeds-- +Now the streams outglancing +With a shy advancing +Naiad-like go dancing + Down the golden meads. + +Down the golden meadows, +Chasing their own shadows-- +Down the golden meadows, + Playing as they run: +Playing with the sedges, +By the water's edges, +Leaping o'er the ledges, + Glist'ning in the sun: + +Streams and streamlets blending, +Each on each attending, +All together wending, + Seek the silver sands; +Like the sisters holding +With a fond enfolding-- +Like to sisters holding + One another's hands. + +Now with foreheads blushing +With a rapturous flushing-- +Now the streams are rushing + In among the waves. +Now in shy confusion, +With a pale suffusion, +Seek the wild seclusion + Of sequestered caves. + +All the summer hours +Hiding in the bowers, +Scattering silver showers + Out upon the strand; +O'er the pebbles crashing, +Through the ripples splashing, +Liquid pearl-wreaths dashing + From each other's hand. + +By yon mossy boulder, +See an ivory shoulder, +Dazzling the beholder, + Rises o'er the blue; +But a moment's thinking, +Sends the Naiad sinking, +With a modest shrinking, + From the gazer's view. + +Now the wave compresses +All their golden tresses-- +Now their sea-green dresses + Float them o'er the tide; +Now with elf-locks dripping +From the brine they're sipping, +With a fairy tripping, + Down the green waves glide. + +Some that scarce have tarried +By the shore are carried +Sea-ward to be married + To the glad gods there: +Triton's horn is playing, +Neptune's steeds are neighing, +Restless with delaying + For a bride so fair. + +See at first the river +How its pale lips quiver, +How its white waves shiver + With a fond unrest; +List how low it sigheth, +See how swift it flieth, +Till at length it lieth + On the ocean's breast. + +Such is Youth's admiring, +Such is Love's desiring, +Such is Hope's aspiring + For the higher goal; +Such is man's condition +Till in heaven's fruition +Ends the mystic mission + Of the eternal soul. +</pre> +<p><a name="p203" id="p203"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE FLOWERS OF THE TROPICS.</h3> +</center> +<p>"C'est ainsi qu'elle nature a mis, entre les tropiques, la plupart des +fleurs apparentes sur des arbres.  J'y en ai vu bien peu dans +les prairies, mais beaucoup dans les forets.  Dans ces pays, il +faut lever les yeux en haut pour y voir des fleurs; dans le notre, +il faut les baisser à terre."—S<font size="-2">AINT</font> + P<font size="-2">IERRE</font>, <i>Etudes de la Nature.</i></p> +<pre> +In the soft sunny regions that circle the waist + Of the globe with a girdle of topaz and gold, +Which heave with the throbbings of life where they're placed, + And glow with the fire of the heart they enfold; +Where to live, where to breathe, seems a paradise dream-- + A dream of some world more elysian than this-- +Where, if Death and if Sin were away, it would seem + Not the foretaste alone, but the fulness of bliss. + +Where all that can gladden the sense and the sight, + Fresh fruitage as cool and as crimson as even; +Where the richness and rankness of Nature unite + To build the frail walls of the Sybarite's heaven. +But, ah! should the heart feel the desolate dearth + Of some purer enjoyment to speed the bright hours, +In vain through the leafy luxuriance of earth + Looks the languid-lit eye for the freshness of flowers. + +No, its glance must be turned from the earth to the sky, + From the clay-rooted grass to the heaven-branching trees; +And there, oh! enchantment for soul and for eye, + Hang blossoms so pure that an angel might seize. +Thus, when pleasure begins from its sweetness to cloy, + And the warm heart grows rank like a soil over ripe, +We must turn from the earth for some promise of joy, + And look up to heaven for a holier type. + +In the climes of the North, which alternately shine, + Now warm with the sunbeam, now white with the snow, +And which, like the breast of the earth they entwine. + Grow chill with its chillness, or glow with its glow, +In those climes where the soul, on more vigorous wing, + Rises soaring to heaven in its rapturous flight, +And, led ever on by the radiance they fling, + Tracketh star after star through infinitude's night. + +How oft doth the seer from his watch-tower on high. + Scan the depths of the heavens with his wonderful glass; +And, like Adam of old, when Earth's creatures went by, + Name the orbs and the sun-lighted spheres as they pass. +How often, when drooping, and weary, and worn, + With fire-throbbing temples and star-dazzled eyes, +Does he turn from his glass at the breaking of morn, + And exchanges for flowers all the wealth of the skies? + +Ah! thus should we mingle the far and the near, + And, while striving to pierce what the Godhead conceals, +From the far heights of Science look down with a fear + To the lowliest truths the same Godhead reveals. +When the rich fruit of Joy glads the heart and the mouth, + Or the bold wing of Thought leads the daring soul forth; +Let us proudly look up as for flowers of the south, + Let us humbly look down as for flowers of the north. +</pre> +<p><a name="p205" id="p205"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE YEAR-KING.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +It is the last of all the days, +The day on which the Old Year dies. +Ah! yes, the fated hour is near; +I see upon his snow-white bier +Outstretched the weary wanderer lies, +And mark his dying gaze. + +A thousand visions dark and fair, +Crowd on the old man's fading sight; +A thousand mingled memories throng +The old man's heart, still green and strong; +The heritage of wrong and right +He leaves unto his heir. + +He thinks upon his budding hopes, +The day he stood the world's young king, +Upon his coronation morn, +When diamonds hung on every thorn, +And peeped the pearl flowers of the spring +Adown the emerald slopes. + +He thinks upon his youthful pride, +When in his ermined cloak of snow, +Upon his war-horse, stout and staunch-- +The cataract-crested avalanche-- +He thundered on the rocks below, +With his warriors at his side. + +From rock to rock, through cloven scalp, +By rivers rushing to the sea, +With thunderous sound his army wound +The heaven supporting hills around; +Like that the Man of Destiny +Led down the astonished Alp. + +The bugles of the blast rang out, +The banners of the lightning swung, +The icy spear-points of the pine +Bristled along the advancing line, +And as the winds' <i>reveillé</i> rung, +Heavens! how the hills did shout. + +Adown each slippery precipice +Rattled the loosen'd rocks, like balls +Shot from his booming thunder guns, +Whose smoke, effacing stars and suns, +Darkens the stifled heaven, and falls +Far off in arrowy showers of ice. + +Ah! yes, he was a mighty king, +A mighty king, full flushed with youth; +He cared not then what ruin lay +Upon his desolating way; +Not his the cause of God or Truth, +But the brute lust of conquering. + +Nought could resist his mighty will, +The green grass withered where he stood; +His ruthless hands were prompt to seize +Upon the tresses of the trees; +Then shrieked the maidens of the wood, +And the saplings of the hill. + +Nought could resist his mighty will; +For in his ranks rode spectral Death; +The old expired through very fear; +And pined the young, when he came near; +The faintest flutter of his breath +Was sharp enough to kill. + +Nought could resist his mighty will; +The flowers fell dead beneath his tread; +The streams of life, that through the plains +Throb night and day through crystal veins, +With feverish pulses frighten'd fled, +Or curdled, and grew still. + +Nought could resist his mighty will; +On rafts of ice, blue-hued, like steel, +He crossed the broadest rivers o'er +Ah! me, and then was heard no more +The murmur of the peaceful wheel +That turned the peasant's mill. + +But why the evil that attends +On War recall to further view? +Accursèd War!--the world too well +Knows what thou art--thou fiend of hell! +The heartless havoc of a few +For their own selfish ends! + +Soon, soon the youthful conqueror +Felt moved, and bade the horrors cease; +Nature resumed its ancient sway, +Warm tears rolled down the cheeks of Day, +And Spring, the harbinger of peace +Proclaimed the fight was o'er. + +Oh! what a change came o'er the world; +The winds, that cut like naked swords, +Shed balm upon the wounds they made; +And they who came the first to aid +The foray of grim Winter's hordes +The flag of truce unfurled. + +Oh! how the song of joy, the sound +Of rapture thrills the leaguered camps +The tinkling showers like cymbals clash +Upon the late leaves of the ash, +And blossoms hang like festal lamps +On all the trees around. + +And there is sunshine, sent to strew +God's cloth of gold, whereon may dance, +To music that harmonious moves, +The linkèd Graces and the Loves, +Making reality romance, +And rare romance even more than true. + +The fields laughed out in dimpling flowers, +The streams' blue eyes flashed bright with smiles; +The pale-faced clouds turned rosy-red, +As they looked down from overhead, +Then fled o'er continents and isles, +To shed their happy tears in showers. + +The youthful monarch's heart grew light +To find what joy good deeds can shed; +To nurse the orphan buds that bent +Over each turf-piled monument, +Wherein the parent flowers lay dead +Who perished in that fight. + +And as he roamed from day to day, +Atoning thus to flower and tree, +Flinging his lavish gold around +In countless yellow flowers, he found, +By gladsome-weeping April's knee, +The modest maiden May. + +Oh! she was young as angels are, +Ere the eternal youth they lead +Gives any clue to tell the hours +They've spent in heaven's elysian bowers; +Ere God before their eyes decreed +The birth-day of some beauteous star. + +Oh! she was fair as are the leaves +Of pale white roses, when the light +Of sunset, through some trembling bough, +Kisses the queen-flower's blushing brow, +Nor leaves it red nor marble white, +But rosy-pale, like April eves. + +Her eyes were like forget-me-nots, +Dropped in the silvery snowdrop's cup, +Or on the folded myrtle buds, +The azure violet of the woods; +Just as the thirsty sun drinks up +The dewy diamonds on the plots. + +And her sweet breath was like the sighs +Breathed by a babe of youth and love; +When all the fragrance of the south +From the cleft cherry of its mouth, +Meets the fond lips that from above +Stoop to caress its slumbering eyes. + +He took the maiden by the hand, +And led her in her simple gown +Unto a hamlet's peaceful scene, +Upraised her standard on the green; +And crowned her with a rosy crown +The beauteous Queen of all the land. + +And happy was the maiden's reign-- +For peace, and mirth, and twin-born love +Came forth from out men's hearts that day, +Their gladsome fealty to pay; +And there was music in the grove, +And dancing on the plain. + +And Labour carolled at his task, +Like the blithe bird that sings and builds +His happy household 'mid the leaves; +And now the fibrous twig he weaves, +And now he sings to her who gilds +The sole horizon he doth ask. + +And Sickness half forgot its pain, +And Sorrow half forgot its grief; +And Eld forgot that it was old, +As if to show the age of gold +Was not the poet's fond belief, +But every year comes back again. + +The Year-King passed along his way: +Rejoiced, rewarded, and content; +He passed to distant lands and new; +For other tasks he had to do; +But wheresoe'er the wanderer went, +He ne'er forgot his darling May. + +He sent her stems of living gold +From the rich plains of western lands, +And purple-gushing grapes from vines +Born of the amorous sun that shines +Where Tagus rolls its golden sands, +Or Guadaleté old. + +And citrons from Firenze's fields, +And golden apples from the isles +That gladden the bright southern seas, +True home of the Hesperides: +Which now no dragon guards, but smiles, +The bounteous mother, as she yields. + +And then the king grew old like Lear-- +His blood waxed chill, his beard grew gray; +He changed his sceptre for a staff: +And as the thoughtless children laugh +To see him totter on his way, +He knew his destined hour was near. + +And soon it came; and here he strives, +Outstretched upon his snow-white bier, +To reconcile the dread account-- +How stands the balance, what the amount; +As we shall do with trembling fear +When our last hour arrives. + +Come, let us kneel around his bed, +And pray unto his God and ours +For mercy on his servant here: +Oh, God be with the dying year! +And God be with the happy hours +That died before their sire lay dead! + +And as the bells commingling ring +The New Year in, the Old Year out, +Muffled and sad, and now in peals +With which the quivering belfry reels, +Grateful and hopeful be the shout, +The King is dead!--Long live the King! +</pre> +<p><a name="p211" id="p211"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE AWAKING.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +A lady came to a snow-white bier, + Where a youth lay pale and dead: + She took the veil from her widowed head, + And, bending low, in his ear she said: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +She pass'd with a smile to a wild wood near, + Where the boughs were barren and bare; + She tapp'd on the bark with her fingers fair, + And call'd to the leaves that were buried there: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The birds beheld her without a fear, + As she walk'd through the dank-moss'd dells; + She breathed on their downy citadels, + And whisper'd the young in their ivory shells: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +On the graves of the flowers she dropp'd a tear, + But with hope and with joy, like us; + And even as the Lord to Lazarus, + She call'd to the slumbering sweet flowers thus: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +To the lilies that lay in the silver mere, + To the reeds by the golden pond; + To the moss by the rounded marge beyond, + She spoke with her voice so soft and fond: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The violet peep'd, with its blue eye clear, + From under its own gravestone; + For the blessed tidings around had flown, + And before she spoke the impulse was known: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The pale grass lay with its long looks sere + On the breast of the open plain; + She loosened the matted hair of the slain, + And cried, as she filled each juicy vein: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The rush rose up with its pointed spear + The flag, with its falchion broad; + The dock uplifted its shield unawed, + As her voice rung over the quickening sod: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The red blood ran through the clover near, + And the heath on the hills o'erhead; + The daisy's fingers were tipp'd with red, + As she started to life, when the lady said: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +And the young Year rose from his snow-white bier, + And the flowers from their green retreat; + And they came and knelt at the lady's feet, + Saying all, with their mingled voices sweet: + "O lady! behold us here." +</pre> +<p><a name="p213" id="p213"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE RESURRECTION.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The day of wintry wrath is o'er, +The whirlwind and the storm have pass'd, +The whiten'd ashes of the snow +Enwrap the ruined world no more; +Nor keenly from the orient blow +The venom'd hissings of the blast. + +The frozen tear-drops of despair +Have melted from the trembling thorn; +Hope plumes unseen her radiant wing, +And lo! amid the expectant air, +The trumpet of the angel Spring +Proclaims the resurrection morn. + +Oh! what a wave of gladsome sound +Runs rippling round the shores of space, +As the requicken'd earth upheaves +The swelling bosom of the ground, +And Death's cold pallor, startled, leaves +The deepening roses of her face. + +Up from their graves the dead arise-- +The dead and buried flowers of spring;-- +Up from their graves in glad amaze, +Once more to view the long-lost skies, +Resplendent with the dazzling rays +Of their great coming Lord and King. + +And lo! even like that mightiest one, +In the world's last and awful hour, +Surrounded by the starry seven, +So comes God's greatest work, the sun, +Upborne upon the clouds of heaven, +In pomp, and majesty, and power. + +The virgin snowdrop bends its head +Above its grave in grateful prayer; +The daisy lifts its radiant brow, +With a saint's glory round it shed; +The violet's worth, unhidden now, +Is wafted wide by every air. + +The parent stem reclasps once more +Its long-lost severed buds and leaves; +Once more the tender tendrils twine +Around the forms they clasped of yore +The very rain is now a sign +Great Nature's heart no longer grieves. + +And now the judgment-hour arrives, +And now their final doom they know; +No dreadful doom is theirs whose birth +Was not more stainless than their lives; +'Tis Goodness calls them from the earth, +And Mercy tells them where to go. + +Some of them fly with glad accord, +Obedient to the high behest, +To worship with their fragrant breath +Around the altars of the Lord; +And some, from nothingness and death, +Pass to the heaven of beauty's breast. + +Oh, let the simple fancy be +Prophetic of our final doom; +Grant us, O Lord, when from the sod +Thou deign'st to call us too, that we +Pass to the bosom of our God +From the dark nothing of the tomb! +</pre> +<p><a name="p214" id="p214"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE FIRST OF THE ANGELS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Hush! hush! through the azure expanse of the sky +Comes a low, gentle sound, 'twixt a laugh and a sigh; +And I rise from my writing, and look up on high, +And I kneel, for the first of God's angels is nigh! + +Oh, how to describe what my rapt eyes descry! +For the blue of the sky is the blue of his eye; +And the white clouds, whose whiteness the snowflakes outvie, +Are the luminous pinions on which he doth fly! + +And his garments of gold gleam at times like the pyre +Of the west, when the sun in a blaze doth expire; +Now tinged like the orange, now flaming with fire! +Half the crimson of roses and purple of Tyre. + +And his voice, on whose accents the angels have hung, +He himself a bright angel, immortal and young, +Scatters melody sweeter the green buds among +Than the poet e'er wrote, or the nightingale sung. + +It comes on the balm-bearing breath of the breeze, +And the odours that later will gladden the bees, +With a life and a freshness united to these, +From the rippling of waters and rustling of trees. + +Like a swan to its young o'er the glass of a pond, +So to earth comes the angel, as graceful and fond; +While a bright beam of sunshine--his magical wand, +Strikes the fields at my feet, and the mountains beyond. + +They waken--they start into life at a bound-- +Flowers climb the tall hillocks, and cover the ground +With a nimbus of glory the mountains are crown'd, +As the rivulets rush to the ocean profound. + +There is life on the earth, there is calm on the sea, +And the rough waves are smoothed, and the frozen are free; +And they gambol and ramble like boys, in their glee, +Round the shell-shining strand or the grass-bearing lea. + +There is love for the young, there is life for the old, +And wealth for the needy, and heat for the cold; +For the dew scatters, nightly, its diamonds untold, +And the snowdrop its silver, the crocus its gold! + +God!--whose goodness and greatness we bless and adore-- +Be Thou praised for this angel--the first of the four-- +To whose charge Thou has given the world's uttermost shore, +To guide it, and guard it, till time is no more! +</pre> +<p><a name="p216" id="p216"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>SPIRIT VOICES.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +There are voices, spirit voices, + Sweetly sounding everywhere, +At whose coming earth rejoices, + And the echoing realms of air, +And their joy and jubilation + Pierce the near and reach the far, +From the rapid world's gyration + To the twinkling of the star. + +One, a potent voice uplifting, + Stops the white cloud on its way, +As it drives with driftless drifting + O'er the vacant vault of day, +And in sounds of soft upbraiding + Calls it down the void inane +To the gilding and the shading + Of the mountain and the plain. + +Airy offspring of the fountains, + To thy destined duty sail, +Seek it on the proudest mountains, + Seek it in the humblest vale; +Howsoever high thou fliest, + How so deep it bids thee go, +Be a beacon to the highest + And a blessing to the low. + +When the sad earth, broken-hearted, + Hath not even a tear to shed, +And her very soul seems parted + For her children lying dead, +Send the streams with warmer pulses + Through that frozen fount of fears, +And the sorrow that convulses, + Soothe and soften down to tears. + +Bear the sunshine and the shadow, + Bear the rain-drop and the snow, +Bear the night-dew to the meadow, + And to hope the promised bow, +Bear the moon, a moving mirror + For her angel face and form, +Bear to guilt the flashing terror + Of the lightning and the storm. + +When thou thus hast done thy duty + On the earth and o'er the sea, +Bearing many a beam of beauty, + Ever bettering what must be, +Thus reflecting heaven's pure splendour + And concealing ruined clay, +Up to God thy spirit render, + And dissolving pass away. + +And with fond solicitation, + Speaks another to the streams-- +Leave your airy isolation, + Quit the cloudy land of dreams, +Break the lonely peak's attraction, + Burst the solemn, silent glen, +Seek the living world of action + And the busy haunts of men. + +Turn the mill-wheel with thy fingers, + Turn the steam-wheel with thy breath, +With thy tide that never lingers + Save the dying fields from death; +Let the swiftness of thy currents + Bear to man the freight-fill'd ship, +And the crystal of thy torrents + Bring refreshment to his lip. + +And when thou, O rapid river, + Thy eternal home dost seek, +When no more the willows quiver + But to touch thy passing cheek, +When the groves no longer greet thee + And the shore no longer kiss, +Let infinitude come meet thee + On the verge of the abyss. + +Other voices seek to win us-- + Low, suggestive, like the rest-- +But the sweetest is within us + In the stillness of the breast; +Be it ours, with fond desiring, + The same harvest to produce, +As the cloud in its aspiring + And the river in its use. +</pre> +<p><a name="p219" id="p219"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2><i>Centenary Odes.</i></h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +<h3>O'CONNELL.</h3> +<h4>A<font size="-1">UGUST</font> 6<font size="-1">TH</font>, 1875.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +Harp of my native land +That lived anew 'neath Carolan's master hand; +Harp on whose electric chords, +The minstrel Moore's melodious words, +Each word a bird that sings, +Borne as if on Ariel's wings, + Touched every tender soul + From listening pole to pole. +Sweet harp, awake once more: +What, though a ruder hand disturbs thy rest, + A theme so high + Will its own worth supply. +As finest gold is ever moulded best: +Or as a cannon on some festive day, +When sea and sky, when winds and waves rejoice, +Out-booms with thunderous voice, +Bids echo speak, and all the hills obey-- + +So let the verse in echoing accents ring, + So proudly sing, + With intermittent wail, +The nation's dead, but sceptred King, +The glory of the Gael. +</pre> +<center> +<h4>1775.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +Six hundred stormy years have flown, +Since Erin fought to hold her own, +To hold her homes, her altars free, +Within her wall of circling sea. +No year of all those years had fled, +No day had dawned that was not red, +(Oft shed by fratricidal hand), +With the best blood of all the land. +And now, at last, the fight seemed o'er, +The sound of battle pealed no more; +Abject the prostrate people lay, +Nor dared to hope a better day; +An icy chill, a fatal frost, +Left them with all but honour lost, +Left them with only trust in God, +The lands were gone their fathers owned; +Poor pariahs on their native sod. +Their faith was banned, their prophets stoned; +Their temples crowning every height, +Now echoed with an alien rite, +Or silent lay each mouldering pile, +With shattered cross and ruined aisle. +Letters denied, forbade to pray, +And white-winged commerce scared away: +Ah, what can rouse the dormant life +That still survives the stormier strife? +What potent charm can once again +Relift the cross, rebuild the fane? +Free learning from felonious chains, +And give to youth immortal gains? +What signal mercy from on high?-- +Hush! hark! I hear an infant's cry, +The answer of a new-born child, +From Iveragh's far mountain wild. + +Yes, 'tis the cry of a child, feeble and faint in the night, + But soon to thunder in tones that will rouse both tyrants and slaves. +Yes, 'tis the sob of a stream just awake in its source on the height, + But soon to spread as a sea, and rush with the roaring of waves. + +Yes, 'tis the cry of a child affection hastens to still, + But what shall silence ere long the victor voice of the man? +Easy it is for a branch to bar the flow of the rill, + But all the forest would fail where raging the torrent once ran. + +And soon the torrent will run, and the pent-up waters o'erflow, + For the child has risen to a man, and a shout replaces the cry; +And a voice rings out through the world, so wingèd with Erin's woe, + That charmed are the nations to listen, and the Destinies to reply. + +Boyhood had passed away from that child, predestined by fate + To dry the eyes of his mother, to end the worst of her ills, +And the terrible record of wrong, and the annals of hell and hate, + Had gathered into his breast like a lake in the heart of the hills. + +Brooding over the past, he found himself but a slave, + With manacles forged on his mind, and fetters on every limb; +The land that was life to others, to him was only a grave, + And however the race he ran no victor wreath was for him. + +The fane of learning was closed, shut out was the light of day, + No ray from the sun of science, no brightness from Greece or Rome, +And those who hungered for knowledge, like him, had to fly away, + Where bountiful France threw wide the gates that were shut at home. + +And there he happily learned a lore far better than books, + A lesson he taught for ever, and thundered over the land, +That Liberty's self is a terror, how lovely may be her looks, + If religion is not in her heart, and reverence guide not her hand. + +The steps of honour were barred: it was not for him to climb, + No glorious goal in the future, no prize for the labour of life, +And the fate of him and his people seemed fixed for all coming time + To hew the wood of the helot and draw the waters of strife. + +But the glorious youth returning + Back from France the fair and free, +Rage within his bosom burning, + Such a servile sight to see, + Vowed to heaven it should not be. +"No!" the youthful champion cried, +"Mother Ireland, widowed bride, +If thy freedom can be won +By the service of a son, + Then, behold that son in me. +I will give thee every hour, +Every day shall be thy dower, +In the splendour of the light, +In the watches of the night, +In the shine and in the shower, +I shall work but for thy right." +</pre> +<center> +<h4>1782-1800.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +A dazzling gleam of evanescent glory, + Had passed away, and all was dark once more, +One golden page had lit the mournful story, + Which ruthless hands with envious rage out-tore. + +One glorious sun-burst, radiant and far-reaching, + Had pierced the cloudy veil dark ages wove, +When full-armed Freedom rose from Grattan's teaching, + As sprang Minerva from the brain of Jove. + +Oh! in the transient light that had outbroken, + How all the land with quickening fire was lit! +What golden words of deathless speech were spoken, + What lightning flashes of immortal wit! + +Letters and arts revived beneath its beaming, + Commerce and Hope outspread their swelling sails, +And with "Free Trade" upon their standard gleaming, + Now feared no foes and dared adventurous gales. + +Across the stream the graceful arch extended, + Above the pile the rounded dome arose, +The soaring spire to heaven's high vault ascended, + The loom hummed loud as bees at evening's close. + +And yet 'mid all this hope and animation, + The people still lay bound in bigot chains, +Freedom that gave some slight alleviation, + Could dare no panacea for their pains. + +Yet faithful to their country's quick uprising, + Like some fair island from volcanic waves, +They shared the triumph though their claims despising, + And hailed the freedom though themselves were slaves. + +But soon had come the final compensation, + Soon would the land one brotherhood have known, +Had not some spell of hellish incantation + The new-formed fane of Freedom overthrown. + +In one brief hour the fair mirage had faded, + No isle of flowers lay glad on ocean's green, +But in its stead, deserted and degraded, + The barren strand of Slavery's shore was seen. +</pre> +<center> +<h4>1800-1829.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +Yet! 'twas on that barren strand +Sing his praise throughout the world! + Yet, 'twas on that barren strand, +O'er a cowed and broken band, + That his solitary hand + Freedom's flag unfurled. +Yet! 'twas there in Freedom's cause, + Freedom from unequal laws, + Freedom for each creed and class, + For humanity's whole mass, + That his voice outrang;-- + And the nation at a bound, + Stirred by the inspiring sound, + To his side up-sprang. + +Then the mighty work began, +Then the war of thirty years-- +Peaceful war, when words were spears, +And religion led the van. +When O'Connell's voice of power, +Day by day and hour by hour, +Raining down its iron shower, + Laid oppression low, +Till at length the war was o'er, +And Napoleon's conqueror, +Yielded to a mightier foe. +</pre> +<center> +<h4>1829.</h4> +</center> +<pre> + Into the senate swept the mighty chief, + Like some great ocean wave across the bar + Of intercepting rock, whose jagged reef + But frets the victor whom it cannot mar. + Into the senate his triumphal car + Rushed like a conqueror's through the broken gates + Of some fallen city, whose defenders are + Powerful no longer to resist the fates, +But yield at last to him whom wondering Fame awaits. + + And as "sweet foreign Spenser" might have sung, + Yoked to the car two wingèd steeds were seen, + With eyes of fire and flashing hoofs outflung, + As if Apollo's coursers they had been. + These were quick Thought and Eloquence, I ween, + Bounding together with impetuous speed, + While overhead there waved a flag of green, + Which seemed to urge still more each flying steed, +Until they reached the goal the hero had decreed. + + There at his feet a captive wretch lay bound, + Hideous, deformed, of baleful countenance, + Whom as his blood-shot eye-balls glared around, + As if to kill with their malignant glance, + I knew to be the fiend Intolerance. + But now no longer had he power to slay, + For Freedom touched him with Ithuriel's lance, + His horrid form revealing by its ray, +And showed how foul a fiend the world could once obey. + + Then followed after him a numerous train, + Each bearing trophies of the field he won: + Some the white wand, and some the civic chain, + Its golden letters glistening in the sun; + Some--for the reign of justice had begun-- + The ermine robes that soon would be the prize + Of spotless lives that all pollution shun, + And some in mitred pomp, with upturned eyes, +And grateful hearts invoked a blessing from the skies. +</pre> +<center> +<h4>1843-1847.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +A glorious triumph! a deathless deed!-- + Shall the hero rest and his work half done? +Is it enough to enfranchise a creed, + When a nation's freedom may yet be won? +Is it enough to hang on the wall + The broken links of the Catholic chain, +When now one mighty struggle for ALL + May quicken the life in the land again?-- + +May quicken the life, for the land lay dead; + No central fire was a heart in its breast,-- +No throbbing veins, with the life-blood red, + Ran out like rivers to east or west: +Its soul was gone, and had left it clay-- + Dull clay to grow but the grass and the root; +But harvests for <i>Men,</i> ah! where were they?-- + And where was the tree for Liberty's fruit? + +Never till then, in victory's hour, + Had a conqueror felt a joy so sweet, +As when the wand of his well-won power + O'Connell laid at his country's feet. +"No! not for me, nor for mine alone," + The generous victor cried, "Have I fought, +But to see my Eire again on her throne; + Ah, that was my dream and my guiding thought. + +To see my Eire again on her throne, + Her tresses with lilies and shamrocks twined, +Her severed sons to a nation grown, + Her hostile hues in one flag combined; +Her wisest gathered in grave debate, + Her bravest armed to resist the foe: +To see my country 'glorious and great,'-- + To see her 'free,'--to fight I go!" + +And forth he went to the peaceful fight, + And the millions rose at his words of fire, +As the lightning's leap from the depth of the night, + And circle some mighty minster's spire: +Ah, ill had it fared with the hapless land, + If the power that had roused could not restrain? +If the bolts were not grasped in a glowing hand + To be hurled in peals of thunder again? + +And thus the people followed his path, + As if drawn on by a magic spell,-- +By the royal hill and the haunted rath, + By the hallowed spring and the holy well, +By all the shrines that to Erin are dear, + Round which her love like the ivy clings,-- +Still folding in leaves that never grow sere + The cell of the saint and the home of kings. + +And a soul of sweetness came into the land: + Once more was the harp of Erin strung; +Once more on the notes from some master hand + The listening land in its rapture hung. +Once more with the golden glory of words + Were the youthful orator's lips inspired, +Till he touched the heart to its tenderest chords, + And quickened the pulse which his voice had fired. + +And others divinely dowered to teach-- + High souls of honour, pure hearts of fire, +So startled the world with their rhythmic speech, + That it seemed attuned to some unseen lyre. +But the kingliest voice God ever gave man + Words sweeter still spoke than poet hath sung,-- +For a nation's wail through the numbers ran, + And the soul of the Celt exhaled on his tongue. + +And again the foe had been forced to yield; + But the hero at last waxed feeble and old, +Yet he scattered the seed in a fruitful field, + To wave in good time as a harvest of gold. +Then seeking the feet of God's High Priest, + He slept by the soft Ligurian Sea, +Leaving a light, like the Star in the East, + To lead the land that will yet be free. +</pre> +<center> +<h4>1875.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +A hundred years their various course have run, +Since Erin's arms received her noblest son, +And years unnumbered must in turn depart +Ere Erin fails to fold him to her heart. +He is our boast, our glory, and our pride, +For us he lived, fought, suffered, dared, and died; +Struck off the shackles from each fettered limb, +And all we have of best we owe to him. +If some cathedral, exquisitely fair, +Lifts its tall turrets through the wondering air, +Though art or skill its separate offering brings, +'Tis from O'Connell's heart the structure springs. +If through this city on these festive days, +Halls, streets, and squares are bright with civic blaze +Of glittering chains, white wands, and flowing gowns, +The red-robed senates of a hundred towns, +Whatever rank each special spot may claim, +'Tis from O'Connell's hand their charters came. +If in the rising hopes of recent years +A mighty sound reverberates on our ears, +And myriad voices in one cry unite +For restoration of a ravished right, +'Tis the great echo of that thunder blast, +On Tara pealed or mightier Mullaghmast, +If arts and letters are more widely spread, +A Nile o'erflowing from its fertile bed, +Spreading the rich alluvium whence are given +Harvests for earth and amaranth flowers for heaven; +If Science still, in not unholy walls, +Sets its high chair, and dares unchartered halls, +And still ascending, ever heavenward soars, +While capped Exclusion slowly opes it doors, +It is his breath that speeds the spreading tide, +It is his hand the long-locked door throws wide. +Where'er we turn the same effect we find-- +O'Connell's voice still speaks his country's mind. +Therefore we gather to his birthday feast +Prelate and peer, the people and the priest; +Therefore we come, in one united band, +To hail in him the hero of the land, +To bless his memory, and with loud acclaim +To all the winds, on all the wings of fame +Waft to the listening world the great O'Connell's name. +</pre> +<p><a name="p229" id="p229"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>MOORE.</h3> +<h4>M<font size="-1">AY</font> 28<font size="-1">TH</font>, 1879.</h4> +</center> +<pre> +Joy to Ierné, joy, + This day a deathless crown is won, + Her child of song, her glorious son, +Her minstrel boy +Attains his century of fame, + Completes his time-allotted zone, +And proudly with the world's acclaim + Ascends the lyric throne. + +Yes, joy to her whose path so long, + Slow journeying to her realm of rest + O'er many a rugged mountain's crest, +He charmed with his enchanting song: +Like his own princess in the tale, + When he who had her way beguiled + Through many a bleak and desert wild +Until she reached Cashmere's bright vale +Had ceased those notes to play and sing + To which her heart responsive swelled, + She looking up, in him beheld +Her minstrel lover and her king;-- +So Erin now, her journey well-nigh o'er, +Enraptured sees her minstrel king in Moore. + +And round that throne whose light to-day + O'er all the world is cast, +In words though weak, in hues though faint, +Congenial fancy rise and paint + The spirits of the past +Who here their homage pay-- + Those who his youthful muse inspired, + Those who his early genius fired +To emulate their lay: +And as in some phantasmal glass +Let the immortal spirits pass, +Let each renew the inspiring strain, +And fire the poet's soul again. + +First there comes from classic Greece, +Beaming love and breathing peace, +With her pure, sweet smiling face, +The glory of the Æolian race, +Beauteous Sappho, violet-crowned, +Shedding joy and rapture round: +In her hand a harp she bears, +Parent of celestial airs, +Love leaps trembling from each wire, +Every chord a string of fire:-- +How the poet's heart doth beat, +How his lips the notes repeat, +Till in rapture borne along, +The Sapphic lute, the lyrist's song, +Blend in one delicious strain, +Never to divide again. + +And beside the Æolian queen +Great Alcæus' form is seen: +He takes up in voice more strong +The dying cadence of the song, +And on loud resounding strings +Hurls his wrath on tyrant kings:-- +Like to incandescent coal +On the poet's kindred soul +Fall these words of living flame, +Till their songs become the same,-- +The same hate of slavery's night, +The same love of freedom's light, +Scorning aught that stops its way, +Come the black cloud whence it may, +Lift alike the inspirèd song, +And the liquid notes prolong. + +Carolling a livelier measure +Comes the Teian bard of pleasure, +Round his brow where joy reposes +Radiant love enwreaths his roses, +Rapture in his verse is ringing, +Soft persuasion in his singing:-- +'Twas the same melodious ditty +Moved Polycrates to pity, +Made that tyrant heart surrender +Captive to a tone so tender: +To the younger bard inclining, +Round his brow the roses twining, +First the wreath in red wine steeping, +He his cithern to his keeping +Yields, its glorious fate foreseeing, +From her chains a nation freeing, +Fetters new around it flinging +In the flowers of his own singing. + +But who is this that from the misty cloud + Of immemorial years, +Wrapped in the vesture of his vaporous shroud + With solemn steps appears? +His head with oak-leaves and with ivy crowned + Lets fall its silken snow, +While the white billows of his beard unbound + Athwart his bosom flow: +Who is this venerable form +Whose hands, prelusive of the storm + Across his harp-strings play-- +That harp which, trembling in his hand, +Impatient waits its lord's command + To pour the impassioned lay? +Who is it comes with reverential hail + To greet the bard who sang his country best +'Tis Ossian--primal poet of the Gael-- + The Homer of the West. + +He sings the heroic tales of old + When Ireland yet was free, +Of many a fight and foray bold, + And raid beyond the sea. + +Of all the famous deeds of Fin, + And all the wiles of Mave, +Now thunders 'mid the battle's din, + Now sobs beside the wave. + +That wave empurpled by the sword + The hero used too well, +When great Cuchullin held the ford, + And fair Ferdiah fell. + +And now his prophet eye is cast + As o'er a boundless plain; +He sees the future as the past, + And blends them in his strain. + +The Red-Branch Knights their flags unfold + When danger's front appears, +The sunburst breaks through clouds of gold + To glorify their spears. + +But, ah! a darker hour drew nigh, + The hour of Erin's woe, +When she, though destined not to die, + Lay prostrate 'neath the foe. + +When broke were all the arms she bore, + And bravely bore in vain, +Till even her harp could sound no more + Beneath the victor's chain. + +Ah! dire constraint, ah! cruel wrong, + To fetter thus its chord, +But well they knew that Ireland's song + Was keener than her sword. + +That song would pierce where swords would fail, + And o'er the battle's din, +The sweet, sad music of the Gael + A peaceful victory win. + +Long was the trance, but sweet and low + The harp breathed out again +Its speechless wail, its wordless woe, + In Carolan's witching strain. + +Until at last the gift of words + Denied to it so long, +Poured o'er the now enfranchised chords + The articulate light of song. + +Poured the bright light from genius won, + That woke the harp's wild lays; +Even as that statue which the sun + Made vocal with his rays. + +Thus Ossian in disparted dream + Outpoured the varied lay, +But now in one united stream + His rapture finds its way:-- + +"Yes, in thy hands, illustrious son, + The harp shall speak once more, +Its sweet lament shall rippling run + From listening shore to shore. + +Till mighty lands that lie unknown + Far in the fabled west, +And giant isles of verdure thrown + Upon the South Sea's breast. + +And plains where rushing rivers flow-- + Fit emblems of the free-- +Shall learn to know of Ireland's woe, + And Ireland's weal through thee." + +'Twas thus he sang, +And while tumultuous plaudits rang + From the immortal throng, +In the younger minstrel's hand +He placed the emblem of the land-- + The harp of Irish song. + +Oh! what dulcet notes are heard. +Never bird +Soaring through the sunny air +Like a prayer +Borne by angel's hands on high +So entranced the listening sky +As his song-- +Soft, pathetic, joyous, strong, +Rising now in rapid flight +Out of sight +Like a lark in its own light, +Now descending low and sweet +To our feet, +Till the odours of the grass +With the light notes as they pass +Blend and meet: +All that Erin's memory guards +In her heart, +Deeds of heroes, songs of bards, +Have their part. + +Brian's glories reappear, +Fionualla's song we hear, +Tara's walls resound again +With a more inspirèd strain, +Rival rivers meet and join, +Stately Shannon blends with Boyne; +While on high the storm-winds cease +Heralding the arch of peace. + +And all the bright creations fair + That 'neath his master-hand awake, +Some in tears and some in smiles, +Like Nea in the summer isles, + Or Kathleen by the lonely lake, +Round his radiant throne repair: +Nay, his own Peri of the air + Now no more disconsolate, + Gives in at Fame's celestial gate +His passport to the skies-- + The gift to heaven most dear, + His country's tear. +From every lip the glad refrain doth rise, +"Joy, ever joy, his glorious task is done, +The gates are passed and Fame's bright heaven is won!" + +Ah! yes, the work, the glorious work is done, +And Erin crowns to-day her brightest son, +Around his brow entwines the victor bay, +And lives herself immortal in his lay-- +Leads him with honour to her highest place, +For he had borne his more than mother's name +Proudly along the Olympic lists of fame +When mighty athletes struggled in the race. +Byron, the swift-souled spirit, in his pride +Paused to cheer on the rival by his side, +And Lycidas, so long +Lost in the light of his own dazzling song, +Although himself unseen, +Gave the bright wreath that might his own have been +To him whom 'mid the mountain shepherd throng, +The minstrels of the isles, +When Adonais died so fair and young, +Ierné sent from out her green defiles +"The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, +And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue." +And he who sang of Poland's kindred woes, +And Hope's delicious dream, +And all the mighty minstrels who arose +In that auroral gleam +That o'er our age a blaze of glory threw +Which Shakspere's only knew-- +Some from their hidden haunts remote, +Like him the lonely hermit of the hills, +Whose song like some great organ note +The whole horizon fills. +Or the great Master, he whose magic hand, +Wielding the wand from which such wonder flows, +Transformed the lineaments of a rugged land, +And left the thistle lovely as the rose. +Oh! in a concert of such minstrelsy, +In such a glorious company, +What pride for Ireland's harp to sound, +For Ireland's son to share, +What pride to see him glory-crowned, +And hear amid the dazzling gleam +Upon the rapt and ravished air +Her harp still sound supreme! + +Glory to Moore, eternal be the glory + That here we crown and consecrate to-day, +Glory to Moore, for he has sung our story + In strains whose sweetness ne'er can pass away. + +Glory to Moore, for he has sighed our sorrow + In such a wail of melody divine, +That even from grief a passing joy we borrow, + And linger long o'er each lamenting line. + +Glory to Moore, that in his songs of gladness + Which neither change nor time can e'er destroy, +Though mingled oft with some faint sigh of sadness, + He sings his country's rapture and its joy. + +What wit like his flings out electric flashes + That make the numbers sparkle as they run: +Wit that revives dull history's Dead-sea ashes, + And makes the ripe fruit glisten in the sun? + +What fancy full of loveliness and lightness + Has spread like his as at some dazzling feast, +The fruits and flowers, the beauty and the brightness, + And all the golden glories of the East? + +Perpetual blooms his bower of summer roses, + No winter comes to turn his green leaves sere, +Beside his song-stream where the swan reposes + The bulbul sings as by the Bendemeer. + +But back returning from his flight with Peris, + Above his native fields he sings his best, +Like to the lark whose rapture never wearies, + When poised in air he singeth o'er his nest. + +And so we rank him with the great departed, + The kings of song who rule us from their urns, +The souls inspired, the natures noble hearted, + And place him proudly by the side of Burns. + +And as not only by the Calton Mountain, + Is Scotland's bard remembered and revered, +But whereso'er, like some o'erflowing fountain, + Its hardy race a prosperous path has cleared. + +There 'mid the roar of newly-rising cities, + His glorious name is heard on every tongue, +There to the music of immortal ditties, + His lays of love, his patriot songs are sung. + +So not alone beside that bay of beauty + That guards the portals of his native town +Where like two watchful sentinels on duty, + Howth and Killiney from their heights look down. + +But wheresoe'er the exiled race hath drifted, + By what far sea, what mighty stream beside, +There shall to-day the poet's name be lifted, + And Moore proclaimed its glory and its pride: + +There shall his name be held in fond memento, + There shall his songs resound for evermore, +Whether beside the golden Sacramento, + Or where Niagara's thunder shakes the shore. + +For all that's bright indeed must fade and perish, + And all that's sweet when sweetest not endure, +Before the world shall cease to love and cherish + The wit and song, the name and fame of MOORE. +</pre> +<p><a name="p239" id="p239"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<center> +<h2><i>Miscellaneous Poems.</i></h2> +<hr width="20%" /> +<h3>THE SPIRIT OF THE SNOW.</h3> +</center> +<pre> + The night brings forth the morn-- + Of the cloud is lightning born; +From out the darkest earth the brightest roses grow. + Bright sparks from black flints fly, + And from out a leaden sky +Comes the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow. + + The wondering air grows mute, + As her pearly parachute +Cometh slowly down from heaven, softly floating to and fro; + And the earth emits no sound, + As lightly on the ground +Leaps the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow. + + At the contact of her tread, + The mountain's festal head, +As with chaplets of white roses, seems to glow; + And its furrowed cheek grows white + With a feeling of delight, +At the presence of the Spirit of the Snow. + + As she wendeth to the vale, + The longing fields grow pale-- +The tiny streams that vein them cease to flow; + And the river stays its tide + With wonder and with pride, +To gaze upon the Spirit of the Snow. + + But little doth she deem + The love of field or stream-- +She is frolicsome and lightsome as the roe; + She is here and she is there, + On the earth or in the air, +Ever changing, floats the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now a daring climber, she + Mounts the tallest forest tree-- +Out along the giddy branches doth she go; + And her tassels, silver-white, + Down swinging through the night, +Mark the pillow of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now she climbs the mighty mast, + When the sailor boy at last +Dreams of home in his hammock down below + There she watches in his stead + Till the morning sun shines red, +Then evanishes the Spirit of the Snow. + + Or crowning with white fire. + The minster's topmost spire +With a glory such as sainted foreheads show; + She teaches fanes are given + Thus to lift the heart to heaven, +There to melt like the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now above the loaded wain, + Now beneath the thundering train, +Doth she hear the sweet bells tinkle and the snorting engine blow; + Now she flutters on the breeze, + Till the branches of the trees +Catch the tossed and tangled tresses of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now an infant's balmy breath + Gives the spirit seeming death, +When adown her pallid features fair Decay's damp dew-drops flow; + Now again her strong assault + Can make an army halt, +And trench itself in terror 'gainst the Spirit of the Snow. + + At times with gentle power, + In visiting some bower, +She scarce will hide the holly's red, the blackness of the sloe; + But, ah! her awful might, + When down some Alpine height +The hapless hamlet sinks before the Spirit of the Snow. + + On a feather she floats down + The turbid rivers brown, +Down to meet the drifting navies of the winter-freighted floe; + Then swift o'er the azure walls + Of the awful waterfalls, +Where Niagara leaps roaring, glides the Spirit of the Snow. + + With her flag of truce unfurled, + She makes peace o'er all the world-- +Makes bloody battle cease awhile, and war's unpitying woe; + Till, its hollow womb within, + The deep dark-mouthed culverin +Encloses, like a cradled child, the Spirit of the Snow. + + She uses in her need + The fleetly-flying steed-- +Now tries the rapid reindeer's strength, and now the camel slow; + Or, ere defiled by earth, + Unto her place of birth, +Returns upon the eagle's wing the Spirit of the Snow. + + Oft with pallid figure bowed, + Like the Banshee in her shroud, +Doth the moon her spectral shadow o'er some silent gravestone throw; + Then moans the fitful wail, + And the wanderer grows pale, +Till at morning fades the phantom of the Spirit of the Snow. + + In her ermine cloak of state + She sitteth at the gate +Of some winter-prisoned princess in her palace by the Po; + Who dares not to come forth + Till back unto the North +Flies the beautiful besieger--the Spirit of the Snow. + + In her spotless linen hood, + Like the other sisterhood, +She braves the open cloister when the psalm sounds sweet and low; + When some sister's bier doth pass + From the minster and the Mass, +Soon to sink into the earth, like the Spirit of the Snow. + + But at times so full of joy, + She will play with girl and boy, +Fly from out their tingling fingers, like white fireballs on the foe; + She will burst in feathery flakes, + And the ruin that she makes +Will but wake the crackling laughter of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Or in furry mantle drest, + She will fondle on her breast +The embryo buds awaiting the near Spring's mysterious throe; + So fondly that the first + Of the blossoms that outburst +Will be called the beauteous daughter of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Ah! would that we were sure + Of hearts so warmly pure, +In all the winter weather that this lesser life must know; + That when shines the Sun of Love + From the warmer realm above, +In its light we may dissolve, like the Spirit of the Snow. +</pre> +<p><a name="p243" id="p243"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO THE BAY OF DUBLIN.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +My native Bay, for many a year +I've lov'd thee with a trembling fear, +Lest thou, though dear and very dear, + And beauteous as a vision, +Shouldst have some rival far away, +Some matchless wonder of a bay, +Whose sparkling waters ever play + 'Neath azure skies elysian. + +'Tis Love, methought, blind Love that pours +The rippling magic round these shores, +For whatsoever Love adores + Becomes what Love desireth: +'Tis ignorance of aught beside +That throws enchantment o'er the tide, +And makes my heart respond with pride + To what mine eye admireth, + +And thus, unto our mutual loss, +Whene'er I paced the sloping moss +Of green Killiney, or across + The intervening waters, +Up Howth's brown sides my feet would wend, +To see thy sinuous bosom bend, +Or view thine outstretch'd arms extend + To clasp thine islet daughters; + +Then would this spectre of my fear +Beside me stand--How calm and clear +Slept underneath, the green waves, near + The tide-worn rocks' recesses; +Or when they woke, and leapt from land, +Like startled sea-nymphs, hand-in-hand, +Seeking the southern silver strand + With floating emerald tresses: + +It lay o'er all, a moral mist, +Even on the hills, when evening kissed +The granite peaks to amethyst, + I felt its fatal shadow: +It darkened o'er the brightest rills, +It lowered upon the sunniest hills, +And hid the wingèd song that fills + The moorland and the meadow. + +But now that I have been to view +All even Nature's self can do, +And from Gaeta's arch of blue + Borne many a fond memento; +And from each fair and famous scene, +Where Beauty is, and Power hath been, +Along the golden shores between + Misenum and Sorrento: + +I can look proudly in thy face, +Fair daughter of a hardier race, +And feel thy winning well-known grace, + Without my old misgiving; +And as I kneel upon thy strand, +And kiss thy once unvalued hand, +Proclaim earth holds no lovelier land, + Where life is worth the living. +</pre> +<p><a name="p245" id="p245"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO ETHNA.</h3> +</center> +<pre> + First loved, last loved, best loved of all I've loved! + Ethna, my boyhood's dream, my manhood's light, + Pure angel spirit, in whose light I've moved, + Full many a year, along life's darksome night! + Thou wert my star, serenely shining bright + Beyond youth's passing clouds and mists obscure + Thou wert the power that kept my spirit white, + My soul unsoiled, my heart untouched and pure. +Thine was the light from heaven that ever must endure. + + Purest, and best, and brightest, no mishap, + No chance, or change can break our mutual ties; + My heart lies spread before thee like a map, + Here roll the tides, and there the mountains rise; + Here dangers frown and there hope's streamlet flies, + And golden promontories cleave the main: + And I have looked into thy lustrous eyes, + And saw the thought thou couldst not all restrain, +A sweet, soft, sympathetic pity for my pain! + + Dearest, and best, I dedicate to thee, + From this hour forth, my hopes, my dreams, my cares, + All that I am, and all I e'er may be, + Youth's clustering locks, and age's thin white hairs; + Thou by my side, fair vision, unawares-- + Sweet saint--shalt guard me as with angel's wings; + To thee shall rise the morning's hopeful prayers, + The evening hymns, the thoughts that midnight brings, +The worship that like fire out of the warm heart springs. + + Thou wilt be with me through the struggling day, + Thou wilt be with me through the pensive night, + Thou wilt be with me, though far, far away + Some sad mischance may snatch you from my sight, + In grief, in pain, in gladness, in delight, + In every thought thy form shall bear a part, + In every dream thy memory shall unite, + Bride of my soul! and partner of my heart! +Till from the dreadful bow flieth the fatal dart! + + Am I deceived? and do I pine and faint + For worth that only dwells in heaven above, + And if thou'rt not the Ethna that I paint, + Then thou art not the Ethna that I love; + If thou art not as gentle as the dove, + And good as thou art beautiful, the tooth + Of venomed serpent will not deadlier prove + Than that dark revelation; but in sooth, +Ethna, I wrong thee, dearest, for thy name is TRUTH. +</pre> +<p><a name="p246" id="p246"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>"NOT KNOWN."</h3> +<p>On receiving through the Post-Office a Returned Letter +from an old residence, marked on the envelope, "Not Known."</p> +</center> +<pre> +A beauteous summer-home had I + As e'er a bard set eyes on-- +A glorious sweep of sea and sky, + Near hills and far horizon. +Like Naples was the lovely bay, + The lovely hill like Rio-- +And there I lived for many a day + In Campo de Estío. + +It seemed as if the magic scene + No human skill had planted; +The trees remained for ever green, + As if they were enchanted: +And so I said to Sweetest-eyes, + My dear, I think that <i>we</i> owe +To fairy hands this paradise + Of Campo de Estío. + +How swiftly flew the hours away! + I read and rhymed and revelled; +In interchange of work and play, + I built, and drained, and levelled; +"The Pope," so "happy," days gone by + (Unlike our ninth Pope Pio), +Was far less happy then than I + In Campo de Estío. + +For children grew in that sweet place, + As in the grape wine gathers-- +Their mother's eyes in each bright face, + In each light heart, their father's: +Their father, who by some was thought + A literary <i>leo,</i> +Ne'er dreamed he'd be so soon forgot + In Campo de Estío. + +But so it was:--Of hope bereft, + A year had scarce gone over, +Since he that sweetest place had left, + And gone--we'll say--to Dover, +When letters came where he had flown. + Returned him from the "P. O.," +On which was writ, O Heavens! "NOT KNOWN + IN CAMPO DE ESTIO!" + +"Not known" where he had lived so long, + A "cintra" home created, +Where scarce a shrub that now is strong + But had its place debated; +Where scarce a flower that now is shown, + But shows <i>his</i> care: O Dio! +And now to be described, "Not known + In Campo de Estío." + +That pillar from the Causeway brought-- + This fern from Connemara-- +That pine so long and widely sought-- + This Cedrus deodara-- +That bust (if Shakespeare's doth survive, + And busts had brains and <i>brio</i>), +Might keep his name at least alive + In Campo de Estío. + +When Homer went from place to place, + The glorious siege reciting +(Of course I presuppose the case + Of reading and of writing), +I've little doubt the Bard divine + His letters got from Scio, +Inscribed "Not known," Ah! me, like mine + From Campo de Estío. + +The poet, howsoe'er inspired, + Must brave neglect and danger; +When Philip Massinger expired, + The death-list said "a stranger!" +A stranger! yes, on earth, but let + The poet sing <i>laus Deo!</i>-- +Heaven's glorious summer waits him yet-- + God's "Campo de Estío." +</pre> +<p><a name="p248" id="p248"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE LAY MISSIONER.</h3> +</center> +<pre> + Had I a wish--'twere this, that heaven would make + My heart as strong to imitate as love, + That half its weakness it could leave, and take + Some spirit's strength, by which to soar above, + A lordly eagle mated with a dove. + Strong-will and warm affection, these be mine; + Without the one no dreams has fancy wove, + Without the other soon these dreams decline, +Weak children of the heart, which fade away and pine! + + Strong have I been in love, if not in will; + Affections crowd and people all the past, + And now, even now, they come and haunt me still, + Even from the graves where once my hopes were cast. + But not with spectral features--all aghast-- + Come they to fright me; no, with smiles and tears, + And winding arms, and breasts that beat as fast + As once they beat in boyhood's opening years, +Come the departed shades, whose steps my rapt soul hears. + + Youth has passed by, its first warm flush is o'er, + And now, 'tis nearly noon; yet unsubdued + My heart still kneels and worships, as of yore, + Those twin-fair shapes, the Beautiful and Good! + Valley and mountain, sky and stream, and wood, + And that fair miracle, the human face, + And human nature in its sunniest mood, + Freed from the shade of all things low and base,-- +These in my heart still hold their old accustom'd place. + + 'Tis not with pride, but gratitude, I tell + How beats my heart with all its youthful glow, + How one kind act doth make my bosom swell, + And down my cheeks the sweet, warm, glad tears flow. + Enough of self, enough of me you know, + Kind reader, but if thou wouldst further wend, + With me, this wilderness of weak words thro', + Let me depict, before the journey end, +One whom methinks thou'lt love, my brother and my friend. + + Ah! wondrous is the lot of him who stands + A Christian Priest, with a Christian fane, + And binds with pure and consecrated hands, + Round earth and heaven, a festal, flower chain; + Even as between the blue arch and the main, + A circling western ring of golden light + Weds the two worlds, or as the sunny rain + Of April makes the cloud and clay unite, +Thus links the Priest of God the dark world and the bright. + + All are not priests, yet priestly duties may + And should be all men's: as a common sight + We view the brightness of a summer's day, + And think 'tis but its duty to be bright; + But should a genial beam of warming light + Suddenly break from out a wintry sky, + With gratitude we own a new delight, + Quick beats the heart and brighter beams the eye, +And as a boon we hail the splendour from on high. + + 'Tis so with men, with those of them at least + Whose hearts by icy doubts are chill'd and torn; + They think the virtues of a Christian Priest + Something professional, put on and worn + Even as the vestments of a Sabbath morn: + But should a friend or act or teach as he, + Then is the mind of all its doubting shorn, + The unexpected goodness that they see +Takes root, and bears its fruit, as uncoerced and free! + + One I have known, and haply yet I know, + A youth by baser passions undefiled, + Lit by the light of genius and the glow + Which real feeling leaves where once it smiled; + Firm as a man, yet tender as a child; + Armed at all points by fantasy and thought, + To face the true or soar amid the wild; + By love and labour, as a good man ought, +Ready to pay the price by which dear truth is bought! + + 'Tis not with cold advice or stern rebuke, + With formal precept, or wit face demure, + But with the unconscious eloquence of look, + Where shines the heart so loving and so pure: + 'Tis these, with constant goodness, that allure + All hearts to love and imitate his worth. + Beside him weaker natures feel secure, + Even as the flower beside the oak peeps forth, +Safe, though the rain descends, and blows the biting North! + + Such is my friend, and such I fain would be, + Mild, thoughtful, modest, faithful, loving, gay, + Correct, not cold, nor uncontroll'd though free, + But proof to all the lures that round us play, + Even as the sun, that on his azure way + Moveth with steady pace and lofty mien, + Though blushing clouds, like syrens, woo his stay, + Higher and higher through the pure serene, +Till comes the calm of eve and wraps him from the scene. +</pre> +<p><a name="p251" id="p251"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE SPIRIT OF THE IDEAL.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Sweet sister spirits, ye whose starlight tresses + Stream on the night-winds as ye float along, +Missioned with hope to man--and with caresses + +To slumbering babes--refreshment to the strong-- + And grace the sensuous soul that it's arrayed in: +As the light burden of melodious song + +Weighs down a poet's words;--as an o'erladen + Lily doth bend beneath its own pure snow; +Or with its joy, the free heart of a maiden:-- + +Thus, I behold your outstretched pinions grow + Heavy with all the priceless gifts and graces +God through thy ministration doth bestow. + +Do ye not plant the rose on youthful faces? + And rob the heavens of stars for Beauty's eyes? +Do ye not fold within love's pure embraces + +All that Omnipotence doth yet devise + For human bliss, or rapture superhuman-- +Heaven upon earth, and earth still in the skies? + +Do ye not sow the fruitful heart of woman + With tenderest charities and faith sincere, +To feed man's sterile soul and to illumine + +His duller eyes, that else might settle here, + With the bright promise of a purer region-- +A starlight beacon to a starry sphere? + +Are they not all thy children, that bright legion-- + Of aspirations, and all hopeful sighs +That in the solemn train of grave Religion + +Strew heavenly flowers before man's longing eyes, + And make him feel, as o'er life's sea he wendeth, +The far-off odorous airs of Paradise?-- + +Like to the breeze some flowery island sendeth + Unto the seaman, ere its bowers are seen, +Which tells him soon his weary wandering endeth-- + +Soon shall he rest, in bosky shades of green, + By daisied meadows prankt with dewy flowers, +With ever-running rivulets between. + +These are thy tasks, my sisters--these the powers + God in his goodness gives into thy hands:-- +'Tis from thy fingers fall the diamond showers + +Of budding Spring, and o'er the expectant lands + June's odorous purple and rich Autumn's gold: +And even when needful Winter wide expands + +His fallow wings, and winds blow sharp and cold + From the harsh east, 'tis thine, o'er all the plain, +The leafless woodlands and the unsheltered wold, + +Gently to drop the flakes of feathery rain-- + Heaven's warmest down--around the slumbering seeds, +And o'er the roots the frost-blanched counterpane. + +What though man's careless eye but little heeds + Even the effects, much less the remoter cause, +Still, in the doing of beneficent deeds-- + +By God and his Vicegerent Nature's laws-- + Ever a compensating joy is found. +Think ye the rain-drop heedeth if it draws + +Rankness as well as Beauty from the ground? + Or that the sullen wind will deign to wake +Only Æolian melodies of sound-- + +And not the stormy screams that make men quake + Thus do ye act, my sisters; thus ye <i>do</i> +Your cheerful duty for the doing's sake-- + +Not unrewarded surely--not when you + See the successful issue of your charms, +Bringing the absent back again to view-- + +Giving the loved one to the lover's arms-- + Smoothing the grassy couch in weary age-- +Hushing in death's great calm a world's alarms. + +I, I alone upon the earth's vast stage + Am doomed to act an unrequited part-- +I, the unseen preceptress of the sage-- + +I, whose ideal form doth win the heart + Of all whom God's vocation hath assigned +To wear the sacred vesture of high Art-- + +To pass along the electric sparks of mind + From age to age, from race to race, until +The expanding truth encircles all mankind. + +What without me were all the poet's skill?-- + Dead, sensuous form without the quickening soul. +What without me the instinctive aim of will?-- + +A useless magnet pointing to no pole. + What the fine ear and the creative hand? +Most potent spirits free from man's control. + +I, THE IDEAL, by the poet stand + When all his soul o'erflows with holy fire, +When currents of the beautiful and grand + +Run glittering down along each burning wire + Until the heart of the great world doth feel +The electric shock of his God-kindled lyre:-- + +Then rolls the thunderous music peal on peal, + Or in the breathless after-pause, a strain +Simpler and sweeter through the hush doth steal-- + +Like to the pattering drops of summer rain + Or rustling grass, when fragrance fills the air +And all the groves are vocal once again: + +Whatever form, whatever shape I bear, + The Spirit of high Impulse, and the Soul +Of all conceptions beautiful and rare, + +Am I; who now swift spurning all control, + On rapid wings--the Ariel of the Muse-- +Dart from the dazzling centre to the pole; + +Now in the magic mimicry of hues + Such as surround God's golden throne, descend +In Titian's skies the boundaries to confuse + +Betwixt earth's heaven and heaven's own heaven to blend + In Raphael's forms the human and divine, +Where spirit dawns, and matter seems to end. + +Again on wings of melody, so fine + They mock the sight, but fall upon the ear +Like tuneful rose-leaves at the day's decline-- + +And with the music of a happier sphere + Entrance some master of melodious sound, +Till startled men the hymns of angels hear. + +Happy for me when, in the vacant round + Of barren ages, one great steadfast soul +Faithful to me and to his art is found. + +But, ah! my sisters, with my grief condole; + Join in my sorrows and respond my sighs; +And let your sobs the funeral dirges toll; + +Weep those who falter in the great emprise-- + Who, turning off upon some poor pretence, +Some worthless guerdon or some paltry prize, + +Down from the airy zenith through the immense + Sink to the low expedients of an hour, +And barter soul for all the slough of sense,-- + +Just when the mind had reached its regal power, + And fancy's wing its perfect plume unfurl'd,-- +Just when the bud of promise in the flower + +Of all completeness opened on the world-- + When the pure fire that heaven itself outflung +Back to its native empyrean curled, + +Like vocal incense from a censer swung:-- + Ah, me! to be subdued when all seemed won-- +That I should fly when I would fain have clung. + +Yet so it is,--our radiant course is run;-- + Here we must part, the deathless lay unsung, +And, more than all, the deathless deed undone. +</pre> +<p><a name="p256" id="p256"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>RECOLLECTIONS.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Ah! summer time, sweet summer scene, + When all the golden days, + Linked hand-in-hand, like moonlit fays, +Danced o'er the deepening green. + +When, from the top of Pelier[111] down + We saw the sun descend, + With smiles that blessings seemed to send +To our near native town. + +And when we saw him rise again + High o'er the hills at morn-- + God's glorious prophet daily born +To preach good will to men-- + +Good-will and peace to all between + The gates of night and day-- + Join with me, love, and with me say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +Sweet summer time, true age of gold, + When hand-in-hand we went + Slow by the quickening shrubs, intent +To see the buds unfold: + +To trace new wild flowers in the grass, + New blossoms on the bough, + And see the water-lilies now +Rise o'er the liquid glass. + +When from the fond and folding gale + The scented briar I pulled, + Or for thy kindred bosom culled +The lily of the vale;-- + +Thou without whom were dark the green, + The golden turned to gray, + Join with me, love, and with me say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +Sweet summer time, delight's brief reign, + Thou hast one memory still, + Dearer than ever tree or hill +Yet stretched along life's plain. + +Stranger than all the wond'rous whole, + Flowers, fields, and sunset skies-- + To see within our infant's eyes +The awakening of the soul. + +To see their dear bright depths first stirred + By the far breath of thought, + To feel our trembling hearts o'erfraught +With rapture when we heard + +Her first clear laugh, which might have been + A cherub's laugh at play-- + Ah! love, thou canst but join and say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +Sweet summer time, sweet summer days, + One day I must recall; + One day the brightest of them all, +Must mark with special praise. + +'Twas when at length in genial showers + The spring attained its close; + And June with many a myriad rose +Incarnadined the bowers: + +Led by the bright and sun-warm air, + We left our indoor nooks; + Thou with my paper and my books, +And I thy garden chair; + +Crossed the broad, level garden-walks, + With countless roses lined; + And where the apple still inclined +Its blossoms o'er the box, + +Near to the lilacs round the pond, + In its stone ring hard by + We took our seats, where save the sky, +And the few forest trees beyond + +The garden wall, we nothing saw, + But flowers and blossoms, and we heard + Nought but the whirring of some bird, +Or the rooks' distant, clamorous caw. + +And in the shade we saw the face + Of our dear infant sleeping near, + And thou wert by to smile and hear, +And speak with innate truth and grace. + +There through the pleasant noontide hours + My task of echoed song I sung; + Turning the golden southern tongue +Into the iron ore of ours! + +'Twas the great Spanish master's pride, + The story of the hero proved; + 'Twas how the Moorish princess loved, +And how the firm Fernando died.[112] + +O happiest season ever seen, + O day, indeed the happiest day; + Join with me, love, and with me say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +One picture more before I close + Fond Memory's fast dissolving views; + One picture more before I lose +The radiant outlines as they rose. + +'Tis evening, and we leave the porch, + And for the hundredth time admire + The rhododendron's cones of fire +Rise round the tree, like torch o'er torch. + +And for the hundredth time point out + Each favourite blossom and perfume-- + If the white lilac still doth bloom, +Or the pink hawthorn fadeth out: + +And by the laurell'd wall, and o'er + The fields of young green corn we've gone; + And by the outer gate, and on +To our dear friend's oft-trodden door. + +And there in cheerful talk we stay, + Till deepening twilight warns us home; + Then once again we backward roam +Calmly and slow the well-known way-- + +And linger for the expected view-- + Day's dying gleam upon the hill; + Or listen for the whip-poor-will,[113] +Or the too seldom shy cuckoo. + +At home the historic page we glean, + And muse, and hope, and praise, and pray-- + Join with me, love, as then, and say-- +Sweet summer time and scene! +</pre> +<p><sup>111</sup> Mount Pelier, in the county of Dublin, overlooking + Rathfarnham, and more remotely Dundrum.  To a brief residence + near the latter village the "Recollections" rendered in this + poem are to be referred.</p> +<p><sup>112</sup> Calderon's "El Principe Constante," translated in the + earlier volumes of the author's Calderon.  London, 1853.</p> +<p><sup>113</sup> I do not know the bird to which I have given this Indian + name.  It, however, imitated its note quite distinctly.</p> +<p><a name="p260a" id="p260a"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>DOLORES.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The moon of my soul is dark, Dolores, + Dead and dark in my breast it lies, +For I miss the heaven of thy smile, Dolores, + And the light of thy brown bright eyes. + +The rose of my heart is gone, Dolores, + Bud or blossom in vain I seek; +For I miss the breath of thy lip, Dolores, + And the blush of thy pearl-pale cheek. + +The pulse of my heart is still, Dolores, + Still and chill is its glowing tide; +For I miss the beating of thine, Dolores, + In the vacant space by my side. + +But the moon shall revisit my soul, Dolores, + And the rose shall refresh my heart, +When I meet thee again in heaven, Dolores, + Never again to part. +</pre> +<p><a name="p260b" id="p260b"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>LOST AND FOUND.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +"Whither art thou gone, fair Una? + Una fair, the moon is gleaming; +Fear no mortal eye, fair Una, + For the very flowers are dreaming. +And the twinkling stars are closing + Up their weary watching glances, +Warders on heaven's walls reposing, + While the glittering foe advances. + +"Una dear, my heart is throbbing, + Full of throbbings without number; +Come! the tired-out streams are sobbing + Like to children ere they slumber; +And the longing trees inclining, + Seek the earth's too distant bosom; +Sad fate! that keeps from intertwining + The earthly and the aerial blossom. + +"Una dear, I've roamed the mountain, + Round the furze and o'er the heather; +Una, dear, I've sought the fountain + Where we rested oft together; +Ah! the mountain now looks dreary, + Dead and dark where no life liveth; +Ah! the fountain, to the weary, + Now, no more refreshment giveth. + +"Una, darling, dearest daughter + Beauty ever gave to Fancy, +Spirit of the silver water, + Nymph of Nature's necromancy! +Fair enchantress, fond magician, + Is thine every spell-word spoken? +Hast thou closed thy fairy mission? + Is thy potent wand then broken? + +"Una dearest, deign to hear me, + Fly no more my prayer resisting!" +Then a trembling voice came near me, + Like a maiden to the trysting, +Like a maiden's feet approaching + Where the lover doth attend her; +Half-forgiving, half-reproaching, + Came that voice so shy and tender. + +"Must I blame thee, must I chide thee, + Change to scorn the love I bore thee? +And the fondest heart beside thee, + And the truest eyes before thee. +And the kindest hands to press thee, + And the instinctive sense to guide thee, +And the purest lips to bless thee, + What, O dreamer! is denied thee? + +"Hast thou not the full fruition, + Hast thou not the full enjoyance +Of thy young heart's fond ambition, + Free from every feared annoyance +Thou hast sighed for truth and beauty, + Hast thou failed, then, in thy wooing? +Dreamed of some ideal duty, + Is there nought that waits thy doing?-- + +"Is the world less bright or beauteous, + That dear eyes behold it <i>with</i> thee? +Is the work of life less duteous, + That thou art helped to do it, prithee? +Is the near rapture non-existent, + Because thou dreamest an ideal? +And canst thou for a glimmering distant + Forget the blessings of the real? + +"Down on thy knees, O doubting dreamer! + Down! and repent thy heart's misprision." +Scarce had I knelt in tears and tremor, + When the scales fell from off my vision. +<i>There</i> stood my human guardian angel, + Given me by God's benign foreseeing, +While from her lips came life's evangel, + "Live! that each day complete thy being!" +</pre> +<p><a name="p262" id="p262"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>SPRING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND.</h3> +<p>On receiving an early crocus and some violets in a letter from Ireland.</p> +</center> +<pre> +Within the letter's rustling fold + I find once more a glad surprise-- +A little tiny cup of gold-- + Two little lovely violet eyes; +A cup of gold with emeralds set, + Once filled with wine from happier spheres; +Two little eyes so lately wet + With spring's delicious dewy tears. + +Oh! little eyes that wept and laughed, + Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim, +Oh! little cup that once was quaffed + By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim. +I press each silken fringe's fold, + Sweet little eyes once more ye shine; +I kiss thy lip, oh, cup of gold, + And find thee full of Memory's wine. + +Within their violet depths I gaze, + And see as in the camera's gloom, +The island with its belt of bays, + Its chieftained heights all capped with broom, +Which as the living lens it fills, + Now seems a giant charmed to sleep-- +Now a broad shield embossed with hills + Upon the bosom of the deep. + +When will the slumbering giant wake? + When will the shield defend and guard? +Ah, me! prophetic gleams forsake + The once rapt eyes of seer or bard. +Enough, if shunning Samson's fate, + It doth not all its vigour yield; +Enough, if plenteous peace, though late, + May rest beneath the sheltering shield. + +I see the long and lone defiles + Of Keimaneigh's bold rocks uphurled, +I see the golden fruited isles + That gem the queen-lakes of the world; +I see--a gladder sight to me-- + By soft Shangânah's silver strand, +The breaking of a sapphire sea + Upon the golden-fretted sand. + +Swiftly the tunnel's rock-hewn pass, + Swiftly the fiery train runs through; +Oh! what a glittering sheet of glass! + Oh! what enchantment meets my view! +With eyes insatiate I pursue, + Till Bray's bright headland bounds the scene. +'Tis Baiæ, by a softer blue! + Gäeta, by a gladder green! + +By tasseled groves, o'er meadows fair, + I'm carried in my blissful dream, +To where--a monarch in the air-- + The pointed mountain reigns supreme; +There in a spot remote and wild, + I see once more the rustic seat, +Where Carrigoona, like a child, + Sits at the mightier mountain's feet. + +There by the gentler mountain's slope, + That happiest year of many a year, +That first swift year of love and hope, + With her then dear and ever dear, +I sat upon the rustic seat, + The seat an aged bay-tree crowns, +And saw outspreading from our feet + The golden glory of the Downs. + +The furze-crowned heights, the glorious glen, + The white-walled chapel glistening near, +The house of God, the homes of men, + The fragrant hay, the ripening ear; +There where there seemed nor sin nor crime, + There in God's sweet and wholesome air-- +Strange book to read at such a time-- + We read of Vanity's false Fair. + +We read the painful pages through, + Perceived the skill, admired the art, +Felt them if true, not wholly true, + A truer truth was in our heart. +Save fear and love of One, hath proved + The sage how vain is all below; +And one was there who feared and loved, + And one who loved that she was so. + +The vision spreads, the memories grow, + Fair phantoms crowd the more I gaze, +Oh! cup of gold, with wine o'erflow, + I'll drink to those departed days: +And when I drain the golden cup + To them, to those I ne'er can see, +With wine of hope I'll fill it up, + And drink to days that yet may be. + +I've drunk the future and the past, + Now for a draught of warmer wine-- +One draught, the sweetest and the last, + Lady, I'll drink to thee and thine. +These flowers that to my breast I fold, + Into my very heart have grown; +To thee I'll drain the cup of gold, + And think the violet eyes thine own. +</pre> +<p><i>Boulogne, March, 1865.</i></p> +<p><a name="p265" id="p265"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO THE MEMORY OF FATHER PROUT.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +In deep dejection, but with affection, + I often think of those pleasant times, +In the days of Fraser, ere I touched a razor, + How I read and revell'd in thy racy rhymes; +When in wine and wassail, we to thee were vassal, + Of Watergrass-hill, O renowned P.P.! + May the bells of Shandon + Toll blithe and bland on + The pleasant waters of thy memory! + +Full many a ditty, both wise and witty, + In this social city have I heard since then +(With the glass before me, how the dream comes o'er me, + Of those Attic suppers, and those vanished men). +But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken, + Or hath left a token of such joy in me + As "The Bells of Shandon + That sound so grand on + The pleasant waters of the river Lee." + +The songs melodious, which--a new Harmodius-- + "Young Ireland" wreathed round its rebel sword, +With their deep vibrations and aspirations, + Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive board! +But to me seems sweeter, with a tone completer, + The melodious metre that we owe to thee-- + Of the bells of Shandon + That sound so grand on + The pleasant waters of the river Lee. + +There's a grave that rises o'er thy sward, Devizes, + Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar, +And a white stone flashes over Goldsmith's ashes + In quiet cloisters by Temple Bar; +So where'er thou sleepest, with a love that's deepest, + Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee, + While the Bells of Shandon + Shall sound so grand on + The pleasant waters of the river Lee. +</pre> +<p><a name="p266" id="p266"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THOSE SHANDON BELLS.</h3> +</center> +<p>[The remains of the Rev. Francis Mahony were laid in the +family burial-place in St. Anne Shandon Churchyard, the +"Bells," which he has rendered famous, tolling the knell of +the poet, who sang of their sweet chimes.]</p> +<pre> +Those Shandon bells, those Shandon bells! +Whose deep, sad tone now sobs, now swells-- +Who comes to seek this hallowed ground, +And sleep within their sacred sound? + +'Tis one who heard these chimes when young, +And who in age their praises sung, +Within whose breast their music made +A dream of home where'er he strayed. + +And, oh! if bells have power to-day +To drive all evil things away, +Let doubt be dumb, and envy cease-- +And round his grave reign holy peace. + +True love doth love in turn beget, +And now these bells repay the debt; +Whene'er they sound, their music tells +Of him who sang sweet Shandon bells! +</pre> +<p><i>May 30, 1866.</i></p> +<p><a name="p267a" id="p267a"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>YOUTH AND AGE.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +To give the blossom and the fruit + The soft warm air that wraps them round, +Oh! think how long the toilsome root + Must live and labour 'neath the ground. + +To send the river on its way, + With ever deepening strength and force, +Oh! think how long 'twas let to play, + A happy streamlet, near its source. +</pre> +<p><a name="p267b" id="p267b"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>TO JUNE.</h3> +<h5>WRITTEN AFTER AN UNGENIAL MAY.</h5> +</center> +<pre> +I'll heed no more the poet's lay-- + His false-fond song shall charm no more-- + My heart henceforth shall but adore +The real, not the misnamed May. + +Too long I've knelt, and vainly hung + My offerings round an empty name; + O May! thou canst not be the same +As once thou wert when Earth was young. + +Thou canst not be the same to-day-- + The poet's dream--the lover's joy:-- + The floral heaven of girl and boy +Were heaven no more, if thou wert May. + +If thou wert May, then May is cold, + And, oh! how changed from what she has been-- + Then barren boughs are bright with green, +And leaden skies are glad with gold. + +And the dark clouds that veiled thy moon + Were silvery-threaded tissues bright, + Looping the locks of amber light +That float but on the airs of June. + +O June! thou art the real May; + Thy name is soft and sweet as hers + But rich blood thy bosom stirs, +Her marble cheek cannot display. + +She cometh like a haughty girl, + So conscious of her beauty's power, + She now will wear nor gem nor flower +Upon her pallid breast of pearl. + +And her green silken summer dress, + So simply flower'd in white and gold, + She scorns to let our eyes behold, +But hides through very wilfulness: + +Hides it 'neath ermined robes, which she + Hath borrowed from some wintry quean, + Instead of dancing on the green-- +A village maiden fair and free. + +Oh! we have spoiled her with our praise, + And made her froward, false, and vain; + So that her cold blue eyes disdain +To smile as in the earlier days. + +Let her beware--the world full soon + Like me shall tearless turn away, + And woo, instead of thine, O May! +The brown, bright, joyous eyes of June. + +O June! forgive the long delay, + My heart's deceptive dream is o'er-- + Where I believe I <i>will</i> adore, +Nor worship June, yet kneel to May. +</pre> +<p><a name="p269" id="p269"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +Summer is a glorious season + Warm, and bright, and pleasant; +But the Past is not a reason + To despise the Present. +So while health can climb the mountain, + And the log lights up the hall, +There are sunny days in Winter, after all! + +Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us, + Maiden-like in charms; +Summer, too, with all her promise, + Perished in our arms. +But the memory of the vanished, + Whom our hearts recall, +Maketh sunny days in Winter, after all! + +True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh, + All the best are dead; +But the wall-flower still perfumeth + Yonder garden-bed. +And the arbutus pearl-blossom'd + Hangs its coral ball-- +There are sunny days in Winter, after all! + +Summer trees are pretty,--very, + And love them well: +But this holly's glistening berry, + None of those excel. +While the fir can warm the landscape, + And the ivy clothes the wall, +There are sunny days in Winter, after all! + +Sunny hours in every season + Wait the innocent-- +Those who taste with love and reason + What their God hath sent. +Those who neither soar too highly, + Nor too lowly fall, +Feel the sunny days of Winter, after all! + +Then, although our darling treasures + Vanish from the heart; +Then, although our once-loved pleasures + One by one depart; +Though the tomb looms in the distance, + And the mourning pall, +There is sunshine, and no Winter, after all! +</pre> +<p><a name="p270" id="p270"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE BIRTH OF THE SPRING.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +O Kathleen, my darling, I've dreamt such a dream, +'Tis as hopeful and bright as the summer's first beam: +I dreamt that the World, like yourself, darling dear, +Had presented a son to the happy New Year! +Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered awhile, +But like yours was the joy, at her baby's first smile, +When the tender nurse, Nature, quick hastened to fling +Her sun-mantle round, as she fondled THE SPRING. + +O Kathleen, 'twas strange how the elements all, +With their friendly regards, condescended to call: +The rough rains of winter like summer-dews fell, +And the North-wind said, zephyr-like: "Is the World well?" +And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell o'er the earth +God's goodness to man in this mystical birth; +For a Son of this World, and an heir to the King +Who rules over man, is this beautiful Spring! + +O Kathleen, methought, when the bright babe was born, +More lovely than morning appeared the bright morn; +The birds sang more sweetly, the grass greener grew, +And with buds and with blossoms the old trees looked new; +And methought when the Priest of the Universe came-- +The Sun--in his vestments of glory and flame, +He was seen, the warm raindrops of April to fling +On the brow of the babe, and baptise him The Spring! + +O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! what treasures are piled +In the mines of the past for this wonderful Child! +The lore of the sages, the lays of the bards, +Like a primer, the eye of this infant regards; +All the dearly-bought knowledge that cost life and limb, +Without price, without peril, is offered to him; +And the blithe bee of Progress concealeth its sting, +As it offers its sweets to the beautiful Spring! + +O Kathleen, they tell us of wonderful things, +Of speed that surpasseth the fairy's fleet wings; +How the lands of the world in communion are brought, +And the slow march of speech is as rapid as thought. +Think, think what an heir-loom the great world will be +With this wonderful wire 'neath the earth and the sea; +When the snows and the sunshine together shall bring +All the wealth of the world to the feet of The Spring. + +Oh! Kathleen, but think of the birth-gifts of love, +That THE MASTER who lives in the GREAT HOUSE above +Prepares for the poor child that's born on His land-- +Dear God! they're the sweet flowers that fall from Thy hand-- +The crocus, the primrose, the violet given +Awhile, to make earth the reflection of heaven; +The brightness and lightness that round the world wing +Are thine, and are ours too, through thee, happy Spring! + +O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! that dream is gone by, +And I wake once again, but, thank God! thou art by; +And the land that we love looks as bright in the beam, +Just as if my sweet dream was not all out a dream, +The spring-tide of Nature its blessing imparts, +Let the spring-tide of Hope send its pulse through our hearts; +Let us feel 'tis a mother, to whose breast we cling, +And a brother we hail, when we welcome the Spring. +</pre> +<p><a name="p272" id="p272"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>ALL FOOL'S DAY.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +The Sun called a beautiful Beam, that was playing + At the door of his golden-wall'd palace on high; +And he bade him be off, without any delaying, + To a fast-fleeting Cloud on the verge of the sky: +"You will give him this letter," said roguish Apollo + (While a sly little twinkle contracted his eye), +With my royal regards; and be sure that you follow + Whatsoever his Highness may send in reply." + +The Beam heard the order, but being no novice, + Took it coolly, of course--nor in this was he wrong-- +But was forced (being a clerk in Apollo's post-office) + To declare (what a bounce!) that he wouldn't be long; +So he went home and dress'd--gave his beard an elision-- + Put his scarlet coat on, nicely edged with gold lace; +And thus being equipped, with a postman's precision, + He prepared to set out on his nebulous race. + +Off he posted at last, but just outside the portals + He lit on earth's high-soaring bird in the dark; +So he tarried a little, like many frail mortals, + Who, when sent on an errand, first go on a lark; +But he broke from the bird--reach'd the cloud in a minute-- + Gave the letter and all, as Apollo ordained; +But the Sun's correspondent, on looking within it, + Found, "Send the fool farther," was all it contained. + +The Cloud, who was up to all mystification, + Quite a humorist, saw the intent of the Sun; +And was ever too airy--though lofty his station-- + To spoil the least taste of the prospect of fun; +So he hemm'd, and he haw'd--took a roll of pure vapour, + Which the light from the beam made as bright as could be, +(Like a sheet of the whitest cream golden-edg'd paper), + And wrote a few words, superscribed, "To the Sea." + +"My dear Beam," or "dear Ray" (t'was thus coolly he hailed him), + "Pray take down to Neptune this letter from me, +For the person you seek--though I lately regaled him-- + Now tries a new airing, and dwells by the sea." +So our Mercury hastened away through the ether, + The bright face of Thetis to gladden and greet; +And he plunged in the water a few feet beneath her, + Just to get a sly peep at her beautiful feet. + +To Neptune the letter was brought for inspection-- + But the god, though a deep one, was still rather green; +So he took a few moments of steady reflection, + Ere he wholly made out what the missive could mean: +But the date (it was "April the first") came to save it + From all fear of mistake; so he took pen in hand, +And, transcribing the cruel entreaty, he gave it + To our travel-tired friend, and said, "Bring it to Land." + +To Land went the Sunbeam, which scarcely received it, + When it sent it, post-haste, back again to the sea; +The Sea's hypocritical calmness deceived it, + And sent it once more to the Land on the lea;-- +From the Land to the Lake--from the Lakes to the Fountains-- + From the Fountains and Streams to the Hills' azure crest, +'Till, at last, a tall Peak on the top of the mountains, + Sent it back to the Cloud in the now golden west. + +He saw the whole trick by the way he was greeted + By the Sun's laughing face, which all purple appears; +Then, amused, yet annoyed at the way he was treated, + He first laughed at the joke, and then burst into tears. +It is thus that this day of mistakes and surprises, + When fools write on foolscap, and wear it the while, +This gay saturnalia for ever arises + 'Mid the showers and the sunshine, the tear and the smile. +</pre> +<p><a name="p275" id="p275"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>DARRYNANE.</h3> +<p>[Written in 1844, after a visit to Darrynane Abbey.]</p> +</center> +<pre> +Where foams the white torrent, and rushes the rill, +Down the murmuring slopes of the echoing hill-- +Where the eagle looks out from his cloud-crested crags, +And the caverns resound with the panting of stags-- +Where the brow of the mountain is purple with heath, +And the mighty Atlantic rolls proudly beneath, +With the foam of its waves like the snowy <i>fenane</i>--[114] +Oh! that is the region of wild Darrynane! + +Oh! fair are the islets of tranquil Glengariff, +And wild are the sacred recesses of Scariff, +And beauty, and wildness, and grandeur commingle +By Bantry's broad bosom, and wave-wasted Dingle; +But wild as the wildest, and fair as the fairest, +And lit by a lustre that thou alone wearest-- +And dear to the eye and the free heart of man +Are the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane! + +And who is the Chief of this lordly domain? +Does a slave hold the land where a monarch might reign? +Oh! no, by St. Finbar,[115] nor cowards, nor slaves, +Could live in the sound of these free, dashing waves! +A chieftain, the greatest the world has e'er known-- +Laurel his coronet--true hearts his throne-- +Knowledge his sceptre--a Nation his clan-- +O'Connell, the chieftain of proud Darrynane! + +A thousand bright streams on the mountains awake, +Whose waters unite in O'Donoghue's lake-- +Streams of Glanflesk and the dark Gishadine +Filling the heart of that valley divine! +Then rushing in one mighty artery down +To the limitless ocean by murmuring Lowne--[116] +Thus Nature unfolds in her mystical plan +A type of the Chieftain of wild Darrynane! + +In him every pulse of our bosoms unite-- +Our hatred of wrong and our worship of right-- +The hopes that we cherish, the ills we deplore, +All centre within his heart's innermost core, +Which, gathered in one mighty current, are flung +To the ends of the earth from his thunder-toned tongue! +Till the Indian looks up, and the valiant Afghan +Draws his sword at the echo from far Darrynane! + +But here he is only the friend and the father, +Who from children's sweet lips truest wisdom can gather, +And seeks from the large heart of Nature to borrow +Rest for the present and strength for the morrow! +Oh! who that e'er saw him with children about him +And heard his soft tones of affection could doubt him? +My life on the truth of the heart of that man +That throbs like the Chieftain's of wild Darrynane! + +Oh! wild Darrynane, on thy ocean-washed shore, +Shall the glad song of mariners echo once more? +Shall the merchants, and minstrels, and maidens of Spain, +Once again in their swift ships come over the main? +Shall the soft lute be heard, and the gay youths of France +Lead our blue-eyed young maidens again to the dance? +Graceful and shy as thy fawns, Killenane,[117] +Are the mind-moulded maidens of far Darrynane! + +Dear land of the south, as my mind wandered o'er +All the joys I have felt by thy magical shore, +From those lakes of enchantment by oak-clad Glená +To the mountainous passes of bold Iveragh! +Like birds which are lured to a haven of rest, +By those rocks far away on the ocean's bright breast--[118] +Thus my thoughts loved to linger, as memory ran +O'er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane! +</pre> +<p><sup>114</sup> "In the mountains of Slievelougher, + and other parts of this county, the country people, towards the end of June, + cut the coarse mountain grass, called by them <i>fenane;</i> towards + August this grass grows white."—<i>Smith's Kerry.</i></p> +<p><sup>115</sup> The abbey on the grounds of Darrynane was + founded in the seventh century by the monks of St. Finbar.</p> +<p><sup>116</sup> The river Lowne is + the only outlet by which all the streams that form the Lakes of Killarney + discharge themselves into the sea—<i>Lan,</i> or <i>Lowne,</i> in the + old Irish signifying full.</p> +<p><sup>117</sup> "Killenane lies to the east of Cahir.  + It has many mountains towards the sea.  + These mountains are frequented by herds of fallow deer, that range about it + in perfect security."—<i>Smith's Kerry.</i></p> +<p><sup>118</sup> The Skellig Rocks.  + In describing one of them, Keating + says "That there is a certain attractive virtue in the soil + which draws down all the birds which attempt to fly over it, + and obliges them to alight upon the rock."</p> +<p><a name="p277" id="p277"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE.</h3> +<p>(On receiving a Shamrock in a Letter from Ireland.)</p> +</center> +<pre> +O postman! speed thy tardy gait-- + Go quicker round from door to door; +For thee I watch, for thee I wait, + Like many a weary wanderer more. +Thou brightest news of bale and bliss-- + Some life begun, some life well o'er. +He stops--he rings!--O heaven! what's this?-- + A shamrock from the Irish shore! + +Dear emblem of my native land, + By fresh fond words kept fresh and green; +The pressure of an unfelt hand-- + The kisses of a lip unseen; +A throb from my dead mother's heart-- + My father's smile revived once more-- +Oh, youth! oh, love! oh, hope thou art, + Sweet shamrock from the Irish shore! + +Enchanter, with thy wand of power, + Thou mak'st the past be present still: +The emerald lawn--the lime-leaved bower-- + The circling shore--the sunlit hill; +The grass, in winter's wintriest hours, + By dewy daisies dimpled o'er, +Half hiding, 'neath their trembling flowers, + The shamrock of the Irish shore! + +And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed, + By queenly Florence, kingly Rome-- +By Padua's long and lone arcade-- + By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam-- +By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed + <i>My</i> poet sailing calmly o'er; +By all, by each, I mourned and missed + The shamrock of the Irish shore! + +I saw the palm-tree stand aloof, + Irresolute 'twixt the sand and sea: +I saw upon the trellised roof + Outspread the wine that was to be; +A giant-flowered and glorious tree + I saw the tall magnolia soar; +But there, even there, I longed for thee, + Poor shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Now on the ramparts of Boulogne, + As lately by the lonely Rance, +At evening as I watch the sun, + I look! I dream! Can this be France +Not Albion's cliffs, how near they be, + He seems to love to linger o'er; +But gilds, by a remoter sea, + The shamrock on the Irish shore! + +I'm with him in that wholesome clime-- + That fruitful soil, that verdurous sod-- +Where hearts unstained by vulgar crime + Have still a simple faith in God: +Hearts that in pleasure and in pain, + The more they're trod rebound the more, +Like thee, when wet with heaven's own rain, + O shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Memorial of my native land, + True emblem of my land and race-- +Thy small and tender leaves expand + But only in thy native place. +Thou needest for thyself and seed + Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er; +Transplanted thou'rt the merest weed, + O shamrock of the Irish shore. + +Here on the tawny fields of France, + Or in the rank, red English clay, +Thou showest a stronger form perchance; + A bolder front thou mayest display, +More able to resist the scythe + That cut so keen, so sharp before; +But then thou art no more the blithe + Bright shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Ah, me! to think--thy scorns, thy slights, + Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave +On Fredericksburg's ensanguined heights, + Or by Potomac's purpled wave! +Ah, me! to think that power malign + Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore, +And what calm rapture might be thine, + Sweet shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet, + True type of trustful love thou art; +Thou liest the whole year at my feet, + To live but one day at my heart. +One day of festal pride to lie + Upon the loved one's heart--what more? +Upon the loved one's heart to die, + O shamrock of the Irish shore! + +And shall I not return thy love? + And shalt thou not, as thou shouldst, be +Placed on thy son's proud heart above + The red rose or the fleur-de-lis? +Yes, from these heights the waters beat, + I vow to press thy cheek once more, +And lie for ever at thy feet, + O shamrock of the Irish shore! +</pre> +<p><i>Boulogne-sur-Mer, March 17, 1865.</i></p> +<p><a name="p280" id="p280"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>ITALIAN MYRTLES.</h3> +<p>[Suggested by seeing for the first time +fire-flies in the myrtle hedges at Spezzia.]</p> +</center> +<pre> +By many a soft Ligurian bay + The myrtles glisten green and bright, +Gleam with their flowers of snow by day, + And glow with fire-flies through the night, +And yet, despite the cold and heat, +Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. + +There is an island in the West, + Where living myrtles bloom and blow, +Hearts where the fire-fly Love my rest + Within a paradise of snow-- +Which yet, despite the cold and heat, +Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. + +Deep in that gentle breast of thine-- + Like fire and snow within the pearl-- +Let purity and love combine, + O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl! +And in the cold and in the heat +Be ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. + +Thy bosom bears as pure a snow + As e'er Italia's bowers can boast, +And though no fire-fly lends its glow-- + As on the soft Ligurian coast-- +'Tis warmed by an internal heat +Which ever keeps it pure and sweet. + +The fire-flies fade on misty eves-- + The inner fires alone endure; +Like rain that wets the leaves, + Thy very sorrows keep thee pure-- +They temper a too ardent heat-- +And keep thee ever pure and sweet. +</pre> +<p><i>La Spezzia, 1862.</i></p> +<p><a name="p281" id="p281"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER.</h3> +</center> +<pre> +"Oh! come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; +Oh! come with me, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; +Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, +Who, prattling climb thy agéd knees, and call thy daughter--mother. + +"Oh come, and leave this land of death--this isle of desolation-- +This speck upon the sunbright face of God's sublime creation, +Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most malign hath risen, +When Labour seeks the poorhouse, and Innocence the prison. + +"'Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the husky wheat is bending; +'Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better time is sending; +'Tis true the island's aged face looks happier and younger, +But in the best of days we've known the sickness and the hunger. + +"When health breathed out in every breeze, too oft we've known the fever-- +Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the bereaver: +Too well remember many a time the mournful task that brought him, +When freshness fanned the summer air, and cooled the glow of autumn. + +"But then the trial, though severe, still testified our patience, +We bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's wise dispensations; +We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise and a warning, +Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the morning. + +"But now through all the black expanse no hopeful morning breaketh-- +No bird of promise in our hearts the gladsome song awaketh; +No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of expectation-- +Nought but the gloom that might precede the world's annihilation. + +"So, mother, turn thy agéd feet, and let our children lead 'em +Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty and to freedom; +Forgetting nought of all the past, yet all the past forgiving; +Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly unto the living. + +"They tell us, they who read and think of Ireland's ancient story, +How once its emerald flag flung out a sunburst's fleeting glory +Oh! if that sun will pierce no more the dark clouds that efface it, +Fly where the rising stars of heaven commingle to replace it. + +"So come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; +Oh! come with us, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; +Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, +Who, prattling, climb thy agéd knees, and call thy daughter--mother." + +"Ah! go, my children, go away--obey this inspiration; +Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; +Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies; +Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's. + +"But though I feel how sharp the pang from thee and thine to sever, +To look upon these darling ones the last time and for ever; +Yet in this sad and dark old land, by desolation haunted, +My heart has struck its roots too deep ever to be transplanted. + +"A thousand fibres still have life, although the trunk is dying, +They twine around the yet green grave where thy father's bones are lying; +Ah! from that sad and sweet embrace no soil on earth can loose 'em, +Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, and golden sands its bosom. + +"Others are twined around the stone, where ivy-blossoms smother +The crumbling lines that trace your names, my father and my mother; +God's blessing be upon their souls--God grant, my old heart prayeth, +Their names be written in the Book whose writing ne'er decayeth. + +"Alas! my prayers would never warm within those great cold buildings, +Those grand cathedral churches with their marbles and their gildings; +Far fitter than the proudest dome that would hang in splendour o'er me, +Is the simple chapel's white-washed wall, where my people knelt before me. + +"No doubt it is a glorious land to which you now are going, +Like that which God bestowed of old, with milk and honey flowing; +But where are the blessed saints of God, whose lives of his law remind me, +Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columkille, in the land I'd leave behind me? + +"So leave me here, my children, with my old ways and old notions; +Leave me here in peace, with my memories and devotions; +Leave me in sight of your father's grave, and as the heavens allied us, +Let not, since we were joined in life, even the grave divide us. + +"There's not a week but I can hear how you prosper better and better, +For the mighty fire-ships o'er the sea will bring the expected letter; +And if I need aught for my simple wants, my food or my winter firing, +You will gladly spare from your growing store a little for my requiring. + +"Remember with a pitying love the hapless land that bore you; +At every festal season be its gentle form before you; +When the Christmas candle is lighted, and the holly and ivy glisten, +Let your eye look back for a vanished face--for a voice that is silent, listen! + +"So go, my children, go away--obey this inspiration; +Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; +Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies; +Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's." +</pre> +<p><a name="p286" id="p286"></a></p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<h3>THE RAIN: A SONG OF PEACE.<sup>119</sup></h3> +</center> +<pre> +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain-- +Welcome, welcome, it cometh again; +It cometh with green to gladden the plain, +And to wake the sweets in the winding lane. + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +It fills the flowers to their tiniest vein, +Till they rise from the sod whereon they had lain-- +Ah, me! ah, me! like an army slain. + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +Each drop is a link of a diamond chain +That unites the earth with its sin and its stain +To the radiant realm where God doth reign. + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +Each drop is a tear not shed in vain, +Which the angels weep for the golden grain +All trodden to death on the gory plain; + +For Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +Will waken the golden seeds again! +But, ah! what power will revive the slain, +Stark lying death over fair Lorraine? + +'Twere better far, O beautiful Rain, +That you swelled the torrent and flooded the main; +And that Winter, with all his spectral train, +Alone lay camped on the icy plain. + +For then, O Rain, O beautiful Rain, +The snow-flag of peace were unfurl'd again; +And the truce would be rung in each loud refrain +Of the blast replacing the bugle's strain. + +Then welcome, welcome, beautiful Rain, +Thou bringest flowers to the parched-up plain; +Oh! for many a frenzied heart and brain, +Bring peace and love to the world again! +</pre> +<p><i>August 28, 1870.</i></p> +<p><sup>119</sup> Written during the Franco-German war.</p> +<hr width="10%" /> +<center> +<p><font size="-1">M. H. Gill & Sons, Printers, Dublin.</font></p> +<p><a name="note-2004" id="note-2004"></a></p> +<hr width="75%" /> +<h3>Transcriber's Notes.</h3> +</center> +<ul> +<li><i>Source.</i>  The collection of poems here presented follows as + closely as possible the 1882 first edition.  I assembled this e-text + over several years, either typing or scanning one poem at a time as the + spirit moved me.  Some poems were transcribed either from the 1884 + second edition, or from D. F. MacCarthy's earlier publications, depending on + whatever happened to be handy at the time.  I have proofread this entire + e-text against the 1882 edition.  In many instances there are minor + variations, mostly in punctuation, among the different source + material.  In some cases, if the 1882 edition clearly has an error, I + have used the other works as a guide.  Where there are variations that + are not obviously errors, I have followed the 1882 edition.  It is + certainly possible, where I transcribed from a non-1882 source, that a few + variations may have slipt my notice, and have not been changed.</li> +<li><i>General.</i>  In the printed source the first word of each section + and poem is in S<font size="-2">MALL</font> C<font size="-2">APITALS</font>, + which I have removed as per Project Gutenberg standards.  Due to HTML + programming reasons associated with text within <pre></pre> + tags (very useful for formatting poetry) instances of + S<font size="-2">MALL</font> C<font size="-2">APITALS</font> within the poems + are rendered as ALL CAPITALS.  In the printed source the patronymic + prefix "Mac" is always followed by a half space; due to limitations in this + electronic format I have rendered names in ALL CAPITALS with a full space + (MAC CAURA) and names in Mixed Capitals without any space (MacCaura) + throughout.  For various reasons the longest line of code in this file + is 79 characters; this means that in some poems I had to wrap the ends of very + long verses to the next line.</li> +<li><i>Footnotes.</i>  In the printed source footnotes are marked with an + asterisk, dagger, et cetera and placed at the bottom of each page.  In + this electronic version I have numbered the footnotes and placed them below + each section or poem.  Due to HTML programming reasons, note references + within a poem are given in [brackets], elsewhere they are given as + <sup>superscript</sup> text.</li> +<li><i><a href="#contents">Contents</a>.</i>  I have removed the page + numbers from the contents list.  Text in brackets are my additions, + giving alternate/earlier published titles for the poems.</li> +<li><i><a href="#preface">Preface</a>.</i>  In the printed source, the + Preface is placed before the Contents, but I have moved it for hypertext + navigation purposes.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p001">Waiting for the May</a>.</i>  This poem was + published under the title of "Summer Longings" in <i>The Bell-Founder and + Other Poems,</i> 1857.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p023">Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird</a>.</i>  This poem + was published under the title of "Home Preference" in <i>The Bell-Founder and + Other Poems,</i> 1857.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p039">Ferdiah</a>.</i>  The ballad between Mave and + Ferdiah includes some long lines of text that would require (due to electronic + publishing line length standards) occasionally breaking a line ending to make + a new line.  Because there is an internal rhyme in these verses, and for + more consistent formatting, I have decided to break every verse here at the + internal rhyme, but not capitalizing the beginning of resultant new + line.  For example, "Which many an arm less brave than thine, which many + a heart less bold, would claim?" is one line of verse in the 1882 edition, but + I have formatted it as "Which many an arm less brave than thine, / which many + a heart less bold, would claim?"  For purposes of recording + <a href="#errata-2004">errata</a> below, I have not numbered these new + pseudo-lines.  The phrase "son of Dáman, Daré's son" appears in + the poem a few times, but with inconsistently applied accents.  As the + inconsistency is the same in the 1884 edition, and I do not know if there is a + poetic or Gaelic grammatical reason for the changing diacritical marks, I have + presented these just as they appear in the printed source.  The word + "creit" is taken directly from the Irish text untranslated—a roughly + equivalent English word is "frame."</li> +<li><i><a href="#p083">The Voyage of St. Brendan</a>.</i>  Note 56 refers + to a puffin (Anas leucopsis) or <i>girrinna.</i>  The bird, at least by + 2004 classification, is not a puffin but a barnacle goose (Branta leucopsis) + and I found one reference to its Irish name as <i>gé + ghiúrain.</i>  As these birds nest in remote areas of the arctic, + people were quite free to invent stories of their origins.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p169">The Dead Tribune</a>.</i>  The subject of this poem + is Daniel O'Connell (1775-1847), an Irish political leader and Minister of + Parliament.  In ill health, his doctor advised he go to a warmer climate; + he died en route to Rome for a pilgrimage.  The 1882 edition has the word + "knawing" which is an obsolete variant of "gnawing"; the latter appears in the + 1884 edition.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p171">A Mystery</a>.</i>  The spelling of "Istambol" is + intentional—the current "Istanbul" was not adopted until the twentieth + century.  The name probably derives from an old nickname for + Constantinople, but the complexity of this city's naming is beyond the + capacity of a footnote.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p174b">To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</a>.</i>  + MacCarthy's translation of Calderón's <i>The Two Lovers of Heaven: + Chrysanthus and Daria</i> has been released as Project Gutenberg e-text + #12173.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p176">To Ethna</a>.</i>  This poem was published under + the listing of "Dedicatory Sonnet" and dated 1850 in <i>The Bell-Founder and + Other Poems,</i> 1857.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p219">O'Connell</a>.</i>  See note a few lines up on "The + Dead Tribune."  My correction of the phrase "heaven's high fault" is not + based on any other published edition.  It is conjectural, based on the + illogicality of the phrase and MacCarthy's use of the phrase "heaven's high + vault" in his translation of Calderón's <i>The Purgatory of St. + Patrick</i> (Project Gutenberg e-text #6371) published two years before this + poem was written.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p229">Moore</a>.</i>  The subject of this poem is Thomas + Moore (1779-1852).  A collection of his poems has been released as + Project Gutenberg e-text #8187, but note that the biographical sketch therein + mistakenly lists 1780 as his birth year.  In this poem "Shakspere" is not + misspelt; it is one of many variants used during and after the bard's lifetime + (my favorite is "Shaxpere" from 1582).</li> +<li><i><a href="#p245">To Ethna</a>.</i>  This poem bears the same title + as a sonnet that also appears in this collection of poems.</li> +<li><i><a href="#p262">Spring Flowers from Ireland</a>.</i>  I retained + the format of the name "Gäeta" as originally printed, even though the + rules for placing a diaeresis imply that it should be "Gaëta."</li> +<li><i><a href="#p281">The Irish Emigrant's Mother</a>.</i>  This poem was + published under the title of "The Emigrants" in <i>The Bell-Founder and Other + Poems,</i> 1857.</li> +</ul> +<center> +<p><a name="errata-2004" id="errata-2004"></a></p> +<hr width="50%" /> +<h3>Errata.</h3> +</center> +<p>Printer's errors found in the 1882 edition have been corrected in this + electronic edition.  While I have no desire to standardize Mr. + MacCarthy's spelling or curtail his poetic license, in some cases where I + could not find a documented variant matching the printed source I have + replaced it and listed the change here.  Occasionally I have inserted + punctuation where it is obviously missing.  Naturally it is possible that + some of these "corrections" are themselves erroneous.  When in doubt + about either a spelling or punctuation error, I have followed the text of the + original.  The list below does not include minor corrections (punctuation + and capitalization) in notes or introductions.</p> +<p>The [original text is in brackets] and {corrected text is in braces} + below.</p> +<ul> +<li><i><a href="#contents">Contents</a>.</i>  [Táin Bó Chuailgne] + {Tain Bó Cuailgné} / [The Year King] {The Year-King} / + [The Awakening] {The Awaking} / [The Voice and the Pen] + {The Voice and Pen}</li> +<li><i><a href="#preface">Preface</a>.</i>  first paragraph + [Táin Bó Chuailgne] {Tain Bó Cuailgné}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p001">Waiting for the May</a>.</i>  line 9 [longing] + {longing,}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p005">Kate of Kenmare</a>.</i>  line 37 [and] {land}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p007">A Lament</a>.</i>  line 117 [strewn] {strown}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p023">Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird</a>.</i>  line 35 + [home] {home,}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p026">The Fireside</a>.</i>  line 20 [fireside.] + {fireside!}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p035">Autumn Fears</a>.</i>  line 40 [field] {field!} / +line 48 [field] {field!}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p039">Ferdiah</a>.</i>  line 69 [birds sing] {bird sings} / +line 590 [ogether] {Together} / +line 1007 [gle] {glen} / +line 1176 [Tain Bó Cuailgné] {<i>Tain Bó Cuailgné</i>} / +line 1229 [be.'] {be."}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p083">The Voyage of St. Brendan</a>.</i>  note 64 + [tanagar] {tanager} / +note 65 [driole] {oriole}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p106">The Foray of Con O'Donnell</a>.</i>  line 347 + [and come] {and some} / +line 407 [seagull] {sea gull}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p124">The Bell-Founder</a>.</i>  +subheader [Vicissitude and Rest.] {Part III.—Vicissitude and Rest.}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p140">Alice and Una</a>.</i>  line 77 [Glengarifl's] + {Glengariff's} / +note 100 [Digialis] {Digitalis}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p164">The Voice and Pen</a>.</i>  line 35 [orator s] + {orator's}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p177">The Arraying</a>.</i>  line 59 [verduous] + {verdurous}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p183">Welcome, May</a>.</i>  line 30 [footseps] + {footsteps}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p193">The Progress of the Rose</a>.</i>  line 65 + [beateous] {beauteous}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p205">The Year-King</a>.</i>  line 114 [iu] {in}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p211">The Awaking</a>.</i>  line 11 [fear] {fear,} / +line 29 [known] {known:}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p214">The First of the Angels</a>.</i>  line 32 + [grass-bearing; lea] {grass-bearing lea}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p216">Spirit Voices</a>.</i>  title [VOICES] {VOICES.} / +line 78 [prodnce] {produce}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p219">O'Connell</a>.</i>  line 123 [fault] {vault} / +line 283 [it] {its}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p229">Moore</a>.</i>  line 101 [countr y] {country}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p246">"Not Known"</a>.</i>  line 39 [Not] {NOT} / +line 48 [Estìo] {Estío}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p248">The Lay Missioner</a>.</i>  line 20 [tis] + {'tis}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p256">Recollections</a>.</i>  line 94 [hundreth] + {hundredth}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p262">Spring Flowers from Ireland</a>.</i>  +line 96 [own] {own.}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p270">The Birth of the Spring</a>.</i>  line 21 [When] + {when} / +line 29 [nowledge] {knowledge}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p275">Darrynane</a>.</i>  line 30 [Lowne?] + {Lowne—} / line 52 [main] {main?}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p281">The Irish Emigrant's Mother</a>.</i>  line 10 [Tis] + {'Tis}</li> +<li><i><a href="#p286">The Rain: a Song of Peace</a>.</i>  line 32 [again] + {again!}</li> +</ul> +<hr /> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Denis Florence MacCarthy + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 12622-h.htm or 12622-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/6/2/12622/ + +Produced by Dennis McCarthy + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Poems + +Author: Denis Florence MacCarthy + +Release Date: June 15, 2004 [EBook #12622] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Dennis McCarthy + + + + +POEMS + + +BY + + +DENIS FLORENCE MAC CARTHY + + + +DUBLIN + +M. H. GILL AND SON, +50 UPPER SACKVILLE STREET + +1882 + + + + +M. H. GILL AND SON, PRINTERS, DUBLIN + + + + +Memorial to Denis Florence MacCarthy. + + +A Committee of friends and admirers of the late Denis Florence MacCarthy +has been formed for the purpose of perpetuating in a fitting manner the +memory of this distinguished Irish poet. Among the contributors to the +Memorial Fund are Cardinal Newman, Cardinal MacCabe, Cardinal MacClosky; +Most Rev. Dr. M'Gettigan, Most Rev. Dr. Croke, Most Rev. Dr. Butler, and +many of the Irish Clergy; Lord O'Hagan, the Marquis of Ripon, Archbishop +Trench, Judge O'Hagan, Sir. C. G. Duffy, Aubrey de Vere, Sir Samuel +Ferguson, and Dr. J. K. Ingram. + +Subscriptions will be received by the Lord Mayor, Mansion House, +Dublin; by Dr. James Brady, 38 Harcourt-st; Mr. W. L. Joynt, D. L., +43 Merrion-square; Rev. C. P. Meehan, SS. Michael and John's; or by +any Member of the Committee. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +This volume contains, besides the poems published in 1850 and 1857,[1] +the odes written for the centenary celebrations in honour of O'Connell +in 1875, and of Moore in 1879. To these are added several sonnets and +miscellaneous poems now first collected, and the episode of "Ferdiah" +translated from the 'Tain Bo Chuailgne.' + +Born in Dublin,[2] May 26th, 1817, my father, while still very young, +showed a decided taste for literature. The course of his boyish reading +is indicated in his "Lament." Some verses from his pen, headed "My +Wishes," appeared in the "Dublin Satirist," April 12th, 1834. This was, +as far as I can discover, the earliest of his writings published. To +the journal just mentioned he frequently contributed, both in prose and +verse, during the next two years. The following are some of the +titles:--"The Greenwood Hill;" "Songs of other Days" (Belshazzar's +Feast--Thoughts in the Holy Land--Thoughts of the Past); "Life," +"Death," "Fables" (The Zephyr and the Sensitive Plant--The +Tulip and the Rose--The Bee and the Rose); "Songs of Birds" +(Nightingale--Eagle--Phoenix--Fire-fly); "Songs of the Winds," &c. + +On October 14th, 1843, his first contribution ("Proclamation Songs," No. +1) appeared in the Dublin "Nation." "Here is a song by a new recruit," +wrote Mr., now Sir, Charles Gavan Duffy, "which we should give in our +leading columns if they were not preoccupied." In the next number I +find "The Battle of Clontarf," with this editorial note: "'Desmond' is +entitled to be enrolled in our national brigade." "A Dream" soon +follows; and at intervals, between this date and 1849--besides many +other poems--all the National songs and most of the Ballads included in +this volume. In April, 1847, "The Bell-Founder" and "The Foray of Con +O'Donnell" appeared in the "University Magazine," in which "Waiting for +the May," "The Bridal of the Year," and "The Voyage of Saint Brendan," +were subsequently published (in January and May, 1848). Meanwhile, in +1846, the year in which he was called to the bar, he edited the "Poets +and Dramatists of Ireland," with an introduction, which evinced +considerable reading, on the early religion and literature of the Irish +people. In the same year he also edited the "Book of Irish Ballads," to +which he prefixed an introduction on ballad poetry. This volume was +republished with additions and a preface in 1869. In 1853, the poems +afterwards published under the title of "Underglimpses" were chiefly +written.[3] + +The plays of Calderon--thoroughly national in form and matter--have met +with but scant appreciation from foreigners. Yet we find his genius +recognized in unexpected quarters, Goethe and Shelley uniting with +Augustus Schlegel and Archbishop Trench to pay him homage. My father +was, I think, first led to the study of Calderon by Shelley's glowing +eulogy of the poet ("Essays," vol. ii., p. 274, and elsewhere). The +first of his translations was published in 1853, the last twenty years +later. They consist[4] of fifteen complete plays, which I believe to be +the largest amount of translated verse by any one author, that has ever +appeared in English. Most of it is in the difficult assonant or vowel +rhyme, hardly ever previously attempted in our language. This may be a +fitting place to cite a few testimonies as to the execution of the work. +Longfellow, whom I have myself heard speak of the "Autos" in a way that +showed how deeply he had studied them in the original, wrote, in 1857: +"You are doing this work admirably, and seem to gain new strength and +sweetness as you go on. It seems as if Calderon himself were behind you +whispering and suggesting. And what better work could you do in your +bright hours or in your dark hours that just this, which seems to have +been put providentially into your hands." Again, in 1862: "Your new +work in the vast and flowery fields of Calderon is, I think, admirable, +and presents the old Spanish dramatist before the English reader in a +very attractive light. Particularly in the most poetical passages you +are excellent; as, for instance, in the fine description of the +gerfalcon and the heron in 'El Mayor Encanto.' I hope you mean to add +more and more, so as to make the translation as nearly complete as a +single life will permit. It seems rather appalling to undertake the +whole of so voluminous a writer; nevertheless, I hope you will do it. +Having proved that you can, perhaps you ought to do it. This may be +your appointed work. It is a noble one."[5] Ticknor ("History of +Spanish Literature," new edition, vol. iii. p. 461) writes thus: +"Calderon is a poet who, whenever he is translated, should have his very +excesses and extravagances, both in thought and manner, fully +reproduced, in order to give a faithful idea of what is grandest and +most distinctive in his genius. Mr. MacCarthy has done this, I +conceive, to a degree which I had previously supposed impossible. +Nothing, I think, in the English language will give us so true an +impression of what is most characteristic of the Spanish drama; perhaps +I ought to say, of what is most characteristic of Spanish poetry +generally." + +Another eminent Hispaniologist (Mr. C. F. Bradford, of Boston) has +spoken of the work in similar terms. His labours did not pass without +recognition from the great dramatist's countrymen. He was elected a +member of the Real Academia some years ago, and in 1881 this learned +body presented him with the medal struck in commemoration of Calderon's +bicentenary, "in token of their gratitude and their appreciation of his +translations of the great poet's works." + +In 1855, at the request of the Marchioness of Donegal, my father wrote +the ode which was recited at the inauguration of the statue of her son, +the Earl of Belfast. About the same time, his Lectures on Poetry were +delivered at the Catholic University at the desire of Cardinal Newman. +The Lectures on the Poets of Spain, and on the Dramatists of the +Sixteenth Century, were delivered a few years later. In 1862 he +published a curious bibliographical treatise on the "Memoires of the +Marquis de Villars." In 1864 the ill-health of some of his family his +leaving his home near Killiney Hill[6] to reside on the Continent. In +1872, "Shelley's Early Life" was published in London, where he had +settled, attracted by the facilities for research which its great +libraries offered. This biography gives an amusing account of the young +poet's visit to Dublin in 1812, and some new details of his adventures +and writings at this period. My father's admiration for Shelley was of +long standing. At the age of seventeen he wrote some lines to the +poet's memory, which appeared in the "Dublin Satirist" already +mentioned, and an elaborate review of his poetry in an early number of +the Nation. I have before alluded to Shelley's influence in directing +his attention to Calderon. The centenary odes in honour of O'Connell +and Moore were written, in 1875 and 1879, at the request of the +committees which had charge of these celebrations. He returned to +Ireland a few months before his death, which took place at Blackrock, +near Dublin, on April 7th,[7] in the present year. His nature was most +sensitive, but though it was his lot to suffer many sorrows, I never +heard a complaint or and unkind word from his lips. + +From what has been said it will be evident that this volume contains +only a part of his poetical works, it having been found impossible to +include the humorous pieces, parodies, and epigrams, without some +acquaintance with which an imperfect idea would be formed of his genius. +The same may be said of his numerous translations from various languages +(exclusive of Calderon's plays). Of those published in 1850, "The +Romance of Maleca," "Saint George's Knight," "The Christmas of the +Foreign Child," and others have been frequently reprinted. He has since +rendered from the Spanish poems by Juan de Pedraza, Antonio de Trueba, +Garcilaso de la Vega, Gongora and "Fernan Caballero," whom he visited +when in Spain shortly before her death, and whose prose story, "The Two +Muleteers," he has also translated. To these must be added, besides +several shorter ballads from Duran's Romancero General, "The Poem of the +Cid," "The Romance of Gayferos," and "The Infanta of France." The last +is a metrical tale of the fourteenth or fifteenth century, presenting +analogies with the "Thousand and One Nights," and probably drawn from an +Oriental source. His translations from the Latin, chiefly of mediaeval +hymns, are also numerous. + +In inserting the poem of "Ferdiah" I was influenced by its subject as +well as by the wish of friends. A few extracts appeared in a magazine +several years ago, and it was afterwards completed without any view to +publication. It follows the present Irish text[8] as closely as the +laws of metre will allow. Since these pages were in the printer's hands +Mr. Aubrey de Vere has given to the world his treatment of the same +theme,[9] adorning as usual all that he touches. As he well says: "It +is not in the form of translation that an ancient Irish tale of any +considerable length admits of being rendered in poetry. What is needed +is to select from the original such portions as are at once the most +essential to the story, and the most characteristic, reproducing them in +a condensed form, and taking care that the necessary additions bring out +the idea, and contain nothing that is not in the spirit of the +original." (Preface, p. vii.) The "Tale of Troy Divine" owes its form, +and we may never know how much of its tenderness and grace, to its +Alexandrian editor. However, the present version may, from its very +literalness, have and interest for some readers. + +Many of the earlier poems here collected have been admirably rendered +into French by the late M. Ernest de Chatelain.[10] The Moore Centenary +Ode has been translated into Latin by the Rev. M. J. Blacker, M. A. + +My thanks are due to the Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J., for his kind +assistance in preparing this book for the press, and to the Publishers +for the accuracy and speed with which it has been produced. + +I cannot let pass this opportunity of expressing my gratitude for the +self-sacrificing labours of the committee formed at the suggestion of +Mr. William Lane Joynt, D. L., to honour my father's memory, and for the +generous response his friends have made to their appeal.[11] + + +JOHN MAC CARTHY + +Blackrock, Dublin, August, 1882. + + +1. "Ballads, Poems, and Lyrics, Original and Translated:" Dublin, 1850. +"The Bell-Founder, and other Poems," "Underglimpses, and other Poems:" +London, 1857. A few pieces which seemed not to be of abiding interest +have been omitted. + +2. At 24 Lower Sackville-street. The house, with others adjoining, was +pulled down several years ago. Their site is now occupied by the +Imperial Hotel. + +3. The subjective view of nature developed in these Poems has been +censured as remote from human interest. Yet a critic of deep insight, +George Gilfillan, declares his special admiration for "the joyous, +sunny, lark-like carols on May, almost worthy of Shelley, and such +delicate, tender, Moore-like 'trifles' (shall I call them?) as 'All +Fool's Day.' The whole" he adds, "is full of a beautiful poetic spirit, +and rich resources both of fancy and language." I may be permitted to +transcribe here an extract from some unpublished comments by Sir William +Rowan Hamilton on another poem of the same class. His remarks are +interesting in themselves, as coming from one illustrious as a man of +science, and, at the same time, a true poet--a combination which may +hereafter become more frequent, since already in the vast regions of +space and time brought within human ken, imagination strives hard to +keep pace with established fact. In a manuscript volume now in the +Library of Trinity College, Dublin, he writes, under date, May, 1848:-- + +"The University Magazine for the present month contains a poem which +delights one, entitled 'The Bridal of the Year.' It is signed 'D. F. M. +C.,' as is also a shorter, but almost a sweeter piece immediately +following it, and headed, 'Summer Longings.'" + +Sir William goes through the whole poem, copying and criticising every +stanza, and concludes as follows:-- + +"After a very pretty ninth stanza respecting the 'fairy +phantoms' in the poet's 'glorious visions seen,' which the +author conceives to 'follow the poet's steps beneath the +morning's beam,' he burst into rapture at the approach of the +Bride herself-- + + "'Bright as are the planets seven-- + with her glances + She advances, + For her azure eyes are Heaven! + And her robes are sunbeams woven, + And her beauteous bridesmaids are + Hopes and wishes-- + Dreams delicious-- + Joys from some serener star, + And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar!' + +"Her eyes 'are' heaven, her robes 'are' sunbeams, and with these +physical aspects of the May, how well does the author of this ode (for +such, surely, we may term the poem, so rich in lyrical enthusiasm and +varied melody) conceive the combination as bridesmaids, as companions to +the bride; of those mental feelings, those new buddings of hope in the +heart which the season is fitted to awaken. The azure eyes glitter back +to ours, for the planets shine upon us from the lovely summer night; but +lovelier still are those 'dreams delicious, joys from some serener +star,' which at the same sweet season float down invisibly, and win +their entrance to our souls. The image of a bridal is happily and +naturally kept before us in the remaining stanzas of this poem, which +well deserve to be copied here, in continuation of these notes--the +former for its cheerfulness, the latter for its sweetness. I wish that +I knew the author, or even that I were acquainted with his name.--Since +ascertained to be D. F. MacCarthy." + +4. The following are the titles and dates of publication: In 1853, +"The Constant Prince," "The Secret in Words," "The Physician of his own +Honour," "Love after Death," "The Purgatory of St. Patrick," "The Scarf +and the Flower." In 1861, "The Greatest Enchantment," "The Sorceries of +Sin," "Devotion of the Cross." In 1867, "Belshazzar's Feast," "The +Divine Philothea" (with Essays from the German of Lorinser, and the +Spanish of Gonzales Pedroso). In 1870, "Chrysanthus and Daria, the Two +Lovers of Heaven." In 1873, "The Wonder-working Magician," "Life is a +Dream," "The Purgatory of St. Patrick" (a new translation entirely in +the assonant metre). Introductions and notes are added to all these +plays. Another, "Daybreak in Copacabana," was finished a few months +before his death, and has not been published. + +5. When the author of "Evangeline" visited Europe for the last time in +1869, they met in Italy. The sonnets at p. 174 [To Henry Wadsworth +Longfellow] refer to this occasion. + +6. The "Campo de Estio," described in the lines "Not Known." + +7. A fortnight after that of Longfellow. His attached friend and early +associate, Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, perished by assassination at Ottawa on +the same day and month fourteen years ago. + +8. Edited by his friend Br. W. K. Sullivan, President of Queen's +College, Cork, who, I may add, has in preparation a paper on the "Voyage +of St. Brendan," and on other ancient Irish accounts of voyages, of +which he finds an explanation in Keltic mythology. The paper will +appear in the Transactions of the American Geographical Society. + +9. "The Combat at the Ford" being Fragment III. of his "Legends of +Ireland's Heroic Age." London, 1882. + +10. In his "Beautes de la Poesie Anglaise, Rayons et Reflets," &c. + +11. The first meeting was held on April 15th, at the Mansion House, +Dublin, under the presidency of the Lord Mayor, the Right Hon. Charles +Dawson, M. P. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + +Preface + + +BALLADS AND LYRICS. + +Waiting for the May [Summer Longings] +Devotion +The Seasons of the Heart +Kate of Kenmare +A Lament +The Bridal of the Year +The Vale of Shanganah +The Pillar Towers of Ireland +Over the Sea +Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird [Home Preference] +Love's Language +The Fireside +The Banished Spirit's Song +Remembrance +The Clan of MacCaura +The Window +Autumn Fears +Fatal Gifts +Sweet May +FERDIAH: an Episode from the Tain Bo Cuailgne +THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN +THE FORAY OF CON O'DONNELL +THE BELL-FOUNDER +ALICE AND UNA + + +NATIONAL POEMS AND SONGS. + +Advance! +Remonstrance +Ireland's Vow +A Dream +The Price of Freedom +The Voice and Pen +"Cease to do Evil--Learn to do Well" +The Living Land +The Dead Tribune +A Mystery + + +SONNETS. + +"The History of Dublin" +To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow +To Kenelm Henry Digby +To Ethna [Dedicatory Sonnet] + + +UNDERGLIMPSES. + +The Arraying +The Search +The Tidings +Welcome, May +The Meeting of the Flowers +The Progress of the Rose +The Bath of the Streams +The Flowers of the Tropics +The Year-King +The Awaking +The Resurrection +The First of the Angels +Spirit Voices + + +CENTENARY ODES. + +O'Connell (August 6th, 1875) +Moore (May 28th, 1879) + + +MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. + +The Spirit of the Snow +To the Bay of Dublin +To Ethna +"Not Known" +The Lay Missioner +The Spirit of the Ideal +Recollections +Dolores +Lost and Found +Spring Flowers from Ireland +To the Memory of Father Prout +Those Shandon Bells +Youth and Age +To June +Sunny Days in Winter +The Birth of the Spring +All Fool's Day +Darrynane +A Shamrock from the Irish Shore +Italian Myrtles +The Irish Emigrant's Mother [The Emigrants] +The Rain: a Song of Peace + + + + +Poems. + + + + +BALLADS AND LYRICS. + + + +WAITING FOR THE MAY. + + Ah! my heart is weary waiting, + Waiting for the May-- +Waiting for the pleasant rambles, +Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, + With the woodbine alternating, + Scent the dewy way. + Ah! my heart is weary waiting, + Waiting for the May. + + Ah! my heart is sick with longing, + Longing for the May-- +Longing to escape from study, +To the young face fair and ruddy, + And the thousand charms belonging + To the summer's day. + Ah! my heart is sick with longing, + Longing for the May. + + Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, + Sighing for the May-- +Sighing for their sure returning, +When the summer beams are burning, + Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, + All the winter lay. + Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, + Sighing for the May. + + Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing, + Throbbing for the May-- +Throbbing for the sea-side billows, +Or the water-wooing willows, + Where in laughing and in sobbing + Glide the streams away. + Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing, + Throbbing for the May. + + Waiting sad, dejected, weary, + Waiting for the May. +Spring goes by with wasted warnings, +Moon-lit evenings, sun-bright mornings; + Summer comes, yet dark and dreary + Life still ebbs away: + Man is ever weary, weary, + Waiting for the May! + + + +DEVOTION. + +When I wander by the ocean, +When I view its wild commotion, +Then the spirit of devotion + Cometh near; +And it fills my brain and bosom, + Like a fear! + +I fear its booming thunder, +Its terror and its wonder, +Its icy waves, that sunder + Heart from heart; +And the white host that lies under + Makes me start. + +Its clashing and its clangour +Proclaim the Godhead's anger-- +I shudder, and with langour + Turn away; +No joyance fills my bosom + For that day. + +When I wander through the valleys, +When the evening zephyr dallies, +And the light expiring rallies + In the stream, +That spirit comes and glads me, + Like a dream. + +The blue smoke upward curling, +The silver streamlet purling, +The meadow wildflowers furling + Their leaflets to repose: +All woo me from the world + And its woes. + +The evening bell that bringeth +A truce to toil outringeth, +No sweetest bird that singeth + Half so sweet, +Not even the lark that springeth + From my feet. + +Then see I God beside me, +The sheltering trees that hide me, +The mountains that divide me + From the sea: +All prove how kind a Father + He can be. + +Beneath the sweet moon shining +The cattle are reclining, +No murmur of repining + Soundeth sad: +All feel the present Godhead, + And are glad. + +With mute, unvoiced confessings, +To the Giver of all blessings +I kneel, and with caressings + Press the sod, +And thank my Lord and Father, + And my God. + + + +THE SEASONS OF THE HEART. + +The different hues that deck the earth +All in our bosoms have their birth; +'Tis not in the blue or sunny skies, +'Tis in the heart the summer lies! +The earth is bright if that be glad, +Dark is the earth if that be sad: +And thus I feel each weary day-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +In vain, upon her emerald car, +Comes Spring, "the maiden from afar," +And scatters o'er the woods and fields +The liberal gifts that nature yields; +In vain the buds begin to grow, +In vain the crocus gilds the snow; +I feel no joy though earth be gay-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +And when the Autumn crowns the year, +And ripened hangs the golden ear, +And luscious fruits of ruddy hue +The bending boughs are glancing through, +When yellow leaves from sheltered nooks +Come forth and try the mountain brooks, +Even then I feel, as there I stray-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +And when the winter comes at length, +With swaggering gait and giant strength, +And with his strong arms in a trice +Binds up the streams in chains of ice, +What need I sigh for pleasures gone, +The twilight eve, the rosy dawn? +My heart is changed as much as they-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +Even now, when Summer lends the scene +Its brightest gold, its purest green, +Whene'er I climb the mountain's breast, +With softest moss and heath-flowers dress'd, +When now I hear the breeze that stirs +The golden bells that deck the furze, +Alas! unprized they pass away-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + +But when thou comest back once more, +Though dark clouds hang and loud winds roar, +And mists obscure the nearest hills, +And dark and turbid roll the rills, +Such pleasures then my breast shall know, +That summer's sun shall round me glow; +Then through the gloom shall gleam the May-- +'Tis winter all when thou'rt away! + + + +KATE OF KENMARE. + +Oh! many bright eyes full of goodness and gladness, + Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine, +And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadness, + Have I worshipped in silence and felt them divine! +But Hope in its gleamings, or Love in its dreamings, + Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair +As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,[12] + The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +It was all but a moment, her radiant existence, + Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me; +But time has not ages and earth has not distance + To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee! +Again am I straying where children are playing, + Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air, +Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee, + Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare! + +Thine arbutus beareth full many a cluster + Of white waxen blossoms like lilies in air; +But, oh! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre + No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear; +To that cheek softly flushing, thy lip brightly blushing, + Oh! what are the berries that bright tree doth bear? +Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty, + That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +O Beauty! some spell from kind Nature thou bearest, + Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye, +That hearts that are hardest, from forms that are fairest, + Receive such impressions as never can die! +The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy,[13] + Can stamp on the hard rock the shapes it doth wear; +Art cannot trace it, nor ages efface it: + And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +To him who far travels how sad is the feeling, + How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim, +When the scenes he most loves, like a river's soft stealing, + All fade as a vision and vanish from him! +Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that garland + That memory weaves of the bright and the fair; +While this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreathing, + And the rose of that garland is Kate of Kenmare! + +In lonely Lough Quinlan in summer's soft hours, + Fair islands are floating that move with the tide, +Which, sterile at first, are soon covered with flowers, + And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like glide. +Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awakened, + And the heart bears a harvest that late was so bare, +Of him who in roving finds objects of loving, + Like the fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare! + +Sweet Kate of Kenmare! though I ne'er may behold thee, + Though the pride and the joy of another thou be, +Though strange lips may praise thee, and strange arms enfold thee, + A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on thee! +One feeling I cherish that never can perish-- + One talisman proof to the dark wizard care-- +The fervent and dutiful love of the Beautiful, + Of which thou art a type, gentle Kate of Kenmare! + + +12. The river of Kenmare. + +13. Near the town is the "Fairy Rock," on which the marks of several +feet are deeply impressed. It derives its name from the popular belief +that these are the work of fairies. + + + +A LAMENT. + +The dream is over, +The vision has flown; +Dead leaves are lying +Where roses have blown; +Wither'd and strown +Are the hopes I cherished,-- +All hath perished +But grief alone. + +My heart was a garden +Where fresh leaves grew +Flowers there were many, +And weeds a few; +Cold winds blew, +And the frosts came thither, +For flowers will wither, +And weeds renew! + +Youth's bright palace +Is overthrown, +With its diamond sceptre +And golden throne; +As a time-worn stone +Its turrets are humbled,-- +All hath crumbled +But grief alone! + +Wither, oh, whither, +Have fled away +The dreams and hopes +Of my early day? +Ruined and gray +Are the towers I builded; +And the beams that gilded-- +Ah! where are they? + +Once this world +Was fresh and bright, +With its golden noon +And its starry night; +Glad and light, +By mountain and river, +Have I bless'd the Giver +With hushed delight. + +These were the days +Of story and song, +When Hope had a meaning +And Faith was strong. +"Life will be long, +And lit with Love's gleamings;" +Such were my dreamings, +But, ah, how wrong! + +Youth's illusions, +One by one, +Have passed like clouds +That the sun looked on. +While morning shone, +How purple their fringes! +How ashy their tinges +When that was gone! + +Darkness that cometh +Ere morn has fled-- +Boughs that wither +Ere fruits are shed-- +Death bells instead +Of a bridal's pealings-- +Such are my feelings, +Since Hope is dead! + +Sad is the knowledge +That cometh with years-- +Bitter the tree +That is watered with tears; +Truth appears, +With his wise predictions, +Then vanish the fictions +Of boyhood's years. + +As fire-flies fade +When the nights are damp-- +As meteors are quenched +In a stagnant swamp-- +Thus Charlemagne's camp, +Where the Paladins rally, +And the Diamond Valley, +And Wonderful Lamp, + +And all the wonders +Of Ganges and Nile, +And Haroun's rambles, +And Crusoe's isle, +And Princes who smile +On the Genii's daughters +'Neath the Orient waters +Full many a mile, + +And all that the pen +Of Fancy can write +Must vanish +In manhood's misty light-- +Squire and knight, +And damosels' glances, +Sunny romances +So pure and bright! + +These have vanished, +And what remains?-- +Life's budding garlands +Have turned to chains; +Its beams and rains +Feed but docks and thistles, +And sorrow whistles +O'er desert plains! + +The dove will fly +From a ruined nest, +Love will not dwell +In a troubled breast; +The heart has no zest +To sweeten life's dolour-- +If Love, the Consoler, +Be not its guest! + +The dream is over, +The vision has flown; +Dead leaves are lying +Where roses have blown; +Wither'd and strown +Are the hopes I cherished,-- +All hath perished +But grief alone! + + + +THE BRIDAL OF THE YEAR. + + Yes! the Summer is returning, + Warmer, brighter beams are burning + Golden mornings, purple evenings, + Come to glad the world once more. + Nature from her long sojourning + In the Winter-House of Mourning, + With the light of hope outpeeping, + From those eyes that late were weeping, + Cometh dancing o'er the waters + To our distant shore. + On the boughs the birds are singing, + Never idle, + For the bridal + Goes the frolic breeze a-ringing + All the green bells on the branches, + Which the soul of man doth hear; + Music-shaken, + It doth waken, + Half in hope, and half in fear, +And dons its festal garments for the Bridal of the Year! + + For the Year is sempiternal, + Never wintry, never vernal, + Still the same through all the changes + That our wondering eyes behold. + Spring is but his time of wooing-- + Summer but the sweet renewing + Of the vows he utters yearly, + Ever fondly and sincerely, + To the young bride that he weddeth, + When to heaven departs the old, + For it is her fate to perish, + Having brought him, + In the Autumn, + Children for his heart to cherish. + Summer, like a human mother, + Dies in bringing forth her young; + Sorrow blinds him, + Winter finds him + Childless, too, their graves among, +Till May returns once more, and the bridal hymns are sung. + + Thrice the great Betroth'ed naming, + Thrice the mystic banns proclaiming, + February, March, and April, + Spread the tidings far and wide; + Thrice they questioned each new-comer, + "Know ye, why the sweet-faced Summer, + With her rich imperial dower, + Golden fruit and diamond flower, + And her pearly raindrop trinkets, + Should not be the green Earth's Bride?" + All things vocal spoke elated + (Nor the voiceless + Did rejoice less)-- + "Be the heavenly lovers mated!" + All the many murmuring voices + Of the music-breathing Spring, + Young birds twittering, + Streamlets glittering, + Insects on transparent wing-- +All hailed the Summer nuptials of their King! + + Now the rosy East gives warning, + 'Tis the wished-for nuptial morning. + Sweetest truant from Elysium, + Golden morning of the May! + All the guests are in their places-- + Lilies with pale, high-bred faces-- + Hawthorns in white wedding favours, + Scented with celestial savours-- + Daisies, like sweet country maidens, + Wear white scolloped frills to-day; + 'Neath her hat of straw the Peasant + Primrose sitteth, + Nor permitteth + Any of her kindred present, + Specially the milk-sweet cowslip, + E'er to leave the tranquil shade; + By the hedges, + Or the edges + Of some stream or grassy glade, +They look upon the scene half wistful, half afraid. + + Other guests, too, are invited, + From the alleys dimly lighted, + From the pestilential vapours + Of the over-peopled town-- + From the fever and the panic, + Comes the hard-worked, swarth mechanic-- + Comes the young wife pallor-stricken + At the cares that round her thicken-- + Comes the boy whose brow is wrinkled, + Ere his chin is clothed in down-- + And the foolish pleasure-seekers, + Nightly thinking + They are drinking + Life and joy from poisoned beakers, + Shudder at their midnight madness, + And the raving revel scorn: + All are treading + To the wedding + In the freshness of the morn, +And feel, perchance too late, the bliss of being born. + + And the Student leaves his poring, + And his venturous exploring + In the gold and gem-enfolding + Waters of the ancient lore-- + Seeking in its buried treasures, + Means for life's most common pleasures; + Neither vicious nor ambitious-- + Simple wants and simple wishes. + Ah! he finds the ancient learning + But the Spartan's iron ore; + Without value in an era + Far more golden + Than the olden-- + When the beautiful chimera, + Love, hath almost wholly faded + Even from the dreams of men. + From his prison + Newly risen-- + From his book-enchanted den-- +The stronger magic of the morning drives him forth again. + + And the Artist, too--the Gifted-- + He whose soul is heaven-ward lifted. + Till it drinketh inspiration + At the fountain of the skies; + He, within whose fond embraces + Start to life the marble graces; + Or, with God-like power presiding, + With the potent pencil gliding, + O'er the void chaotic canvas + Bids the fair creations rise! + And the quickened mass obeying + Heaves its mountains; + From its fountains + Sends the gentle streams a-straying + Through the vales, like Love's first feelings + Stealing o'er a maiden's heart; + The Creator-- + Imitator-- + From his easel forth doth start, +And from God's glorious Nature learns anew his Art! + + But who is this with tresses flowing, + Flashing eyes and forehead glowing, + From whose lips the thunder-music + Pealeth o'er the listening lands? + 'Tis the first and last of preachers-- + First and last of priestly teachers; + First and last of those appointed + In the ranks of the anointed; + With their songs like swords to sever + Tyranny and Falsehood's bands! + 'Tis the Poet--sum and total + Of the others, + With his brothers, + In his rich robes sacerdotal, + Singing with his golden psalter. + Comes he now to wed the twain-- + Truth and Beauty-- + Rest and Duty-- + Hope, and Fear, and Joy, and Pain, +Unite for weal or woe beneath the Poet's chain! + + And the shapes that follow after, + Some in tears and some in laughter, + Are they not the fairy phantoms + In his glorious vision seen? + Nymphs from shady forests wending, + Goddesses from heaven descending; + Three of Jove's divinest daughters, + Nine from Aganippe's waters; + And the passion-immolated, + Too fond-hearted Tyrian Queen, + Various shapes of one idea, + Memory-haunting, + Heart-enchanting, + Cythna, Genevieve, and Nea,[14] + Rosalind and all her sisters, + Born by Avon's sacred stream, + All the blooming + Shapes, illuming + The Eternal Pilgrim's dream,[15] +Follow the Poet's steps beneath the morning's beam. + + But the Bride--the Bride is coming! + Birds are singing, bees are humming; + Silent lakes amid the mountains + Look but cannot speak their mirth; + Streams go bounding in their gladness, + With a bacchanalian madness; + Trees bow down their heads in wonder, + Clouds of purple part asunder, + As the Maiden of the Morning + Leads the blushing Bride to Earth! + Bright as are the planets seven-- + With her glances + She advances, + For her azure eyes are Heaven! + And her robes are sunbeams woven, + And her beauteous bridesmaids are + Hopes and wishes-- + Dreams delicious-- + Joys from some serener star, +And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar. + + Now the mystic right is over-- + Blessings on the loved and lover! + Strike the tabours, clash the cymbals, + Let the notes of joy resound! + With the rosy apple-blossom, + Blushing like a maiden's bosom; + With all treasures from the meadows + Strew the consecrated ground; + Let the guests with vows fraternal + Pledge each other, + Sister, brother, + With the wine of Hope--the vernal + Vine-juice of Man's trustful heart: + Perseverance + And Forbearance, + Love and Labour, Song and Art, +Be this the cheerful creed wherewith the world may start. + + But whither the twain departed? + The United--the One-hearted-- + Whither from the bridal banquet + Have the Bride and Bridegroom flown? + Ah! their steps have led them quickly + Where the young leaves cluster thickly; + Blossomed boughs rain fragrance o'er them, + Greener grows the grass before them, + As they wander through the island, + Fond, delighted, and alone! + At their coming streams grow brighter, + Skies grow clearer, + Mountains nearer, + And the blue waves dancing lighter + From the far-off mighty ocean + Frolic on the glistening sand; + Jubilations, + Gratulations, + Breathe around, as hand-in-hand +They roam the Sutton's sea-washed shore, or soft Shanganah's strand. + + +14. Characters in Shelley, Coleridge, and Moore. + +15. "The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame + Over his living head, like Heaven, is bent, + An early but enduring monument." + Byron. (Shelley's "Adonais.") + + + +THE VALE OF SHANGANAH.[16] + +When I have knelt in the temple of Duty, +Worshipping honour and valour and beauty-- +When, like a brave man, in fearless resistance, +I have fought the good fight on the field of existence; +When a home I have won in the conflict of labour, +With truth for my armour and thought for my sabre, +Be that home a calm home where my old age may rally, +A home full of peace in this sweet pleasant valley! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna, + Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah! + +Fair is this isle--this dear child of the ocean-- +Nurtured with more than a mother's devotion; +For see! in what rich robes has nature arrayed her, +From the waves of the west to the cliffs of Ben Hader,[17] +By Glengariff's lone islets--Lough Lene's fairy water,[18] +So lovely was each, that then matchless I thought her; +But I feel, as I stray through each sweet-scented alley, +Less wild but more fair is this soft verdant valley! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + No wide-spreading prairie, no Indian savannah, + So dear to the eye as the Vale of Shanganah! + +How pleased, how delighted, the rapt eye reposes +On the picture of beauty this valley discloses, +From the margin of silver, whereon the blue water +Doth glance like the eyes of the ocean foam's daughter! +To where, with the red clouds of morning combining, +The tall "Golden Spears"[19] o'er the mountains are shining, +With the hue of their heather, as sunlight advances, +Like purple flags furled round the staffs of the lances! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + No lands far away by the swift Susquehannah, + So tranquil and fair as the Vale of Shanganah! + +But here, even here, the lone heart were benighted, +No beauty could reach it, if love did not light it; +'Tis this makes the earth, oh! what mortal could doubt it? +A garden with it, but a desert without it! +With the lov'd one, whose feelings instinctively teach her +That goodness of heart makes the beauty of feature. +How glad, through this vale, would I float down life's river, +Enjoying God's bounty, and blessing the Giver! + Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! + May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna, + Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah! + + +16. Lying to the south of Killiney-hill, near Dublin. + +17. Hill of Howth. + +18. Killarney. + +19. The Sugarloaf Mountains, county Wicklow, were called in Irish, "The +Spears of Gold." + + + +THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND. + +The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand +By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land; +In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime, +These gray old pillar temples, these conquerors of time! + +Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing and weak +The Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of the Greek, +And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires, +All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires! + +The column, with its capital, is level with the dust, +And the proud halls of the mighty and the calm homes of the just; +For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower, +Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower! + +But the grass grows again when in majesty and mirth, +On the wing of the spring, comes the Goddess of the Earth; +But for man in this world no springtide e'er returns +To the labours of his hands or the ashes of his urns! + +Two favourites hath Time--the pyramids of Nile, +And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle; +As the breeze o'er the seas, where the halcyon has its nest, +Thus Time o'er Egypt's tombs and the temples of the West! + +The names of their founders have vanished in the gloom, +Like the dry branch in the fire or the body in the tomb; +But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they cast-- +These temples of forgotten gods--these relics of the past! + +Around these walls have wandered the Briton and the Dane-- +The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of Spain-- +Phoenician and Milesian, and the plundering Norman Peers-- +And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of later years! + +How many different rites have these gray old temples known! +To the mind what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone! +What terror and what error, what gleams of love and truth, +Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth? + +Here blazed the sacred fire, and, when the sun was gone, +As a star from afar to the traveller it shone; +And the warm blood of the victim have these gray old temples drunk, +And the death-song of the druid and the matin of the monk. + +Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine, +And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine, +And the mitre shining brighter with its diamonds than the East, +And the crosier of the pontiff and the vestments of the priest. + +Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper bell, +Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's cell; +And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and good, +For the cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit stood. + +There may it stand for ever, while that symbol doth impart +To the mind one glorious vision, or one proud throb to the heart; +While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples last, +Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past! + + + +OVER THE SEA. + +Sad eyes! why are ye steadfastly gazing + Over the sea? +Is it the flock of the ocean-shepherd grazing + Like lambs on the lea?-- +Is it the dawn on the orient billows blazing + Allureth ye? + +Sad heart! why art thou tremblingly beating-- + What troubleth thee? +There where the waves from the fathomless water come greeting, + Wild with their glee! +Or rush from the rocks, like a routed battalion retreating, + Over the sea! + +Sad feet! why are ye constantly straying + Down by the sea? +There, where the winds in the sandy harbour are playing + Child-like and free, +What is the charm, whose potent enchantment obeying, + There chaineth ye? + +O! sweet is the dawn, and bright are the colours it glows in, + Yet not to me! +To the beauty of God's bright creation my bosom is frozen! + Nought can I see, +Since she has departed--the dear one, the loved one, the chosen, + Over the sea! + +Pleasant it was when the billows did struggle and wrestle, + Pleasant to see! +Pleasant to climb the tall cliffs where the sea birds nestle, + When near to thee! +Nought can I now behold but the track of thy vessel + Over the sea! + +Long as a Lapland winter, which no pleasant sunlight cheereth, + The summer shall be +Vainly shall autumn be gay, in the rich robes it weareth, + Vainly for me! +No joy can I feel till the prow of thy vessel appeareth + Over the sea! + +Sweeter than summer, which tenderly, motherly bringeth + Flowers to the bee; +Sweeter than autumn, which bounteously, lovingly flingeth + Fruits on the tree, +Shall be winter, when homeward returning, thy swift vessel wingeth + Over the sea! + + + +OH! HAD I THE WINGS OF A BIRD. + +Oh! had I the wings of a bird, + To soar through the blue, sunny sky, +By what breeze would my pinions be stirred? + To what beautiful land should I fly? +Would the gorgeous East allure, + With the light of its golden eyes, +Where the tall green palm, over isles of balm, + Waves with its feathery leaves? + Ah! no! no! no! + I heed not its tempting glare; + In vain should I roam from my island home, + For skies more fair! + +Should I seek a southern sea, + Italia's shore beside, +Where the clustering grape from tree to tree + Hangs in its rosy pride? +My truant heart, be still, + For I long have sighed to stray +Through the myrtle flowers of fair Italy's bowers. + By the shores of its southern bay. + But no! no! no! + Though bright be its sparkling seas, + I never would roam from my island home, + For charms like these! + +Should I seek that land so bright, + Where the Spanish maiden roves, +With a heart of love and an eye of light, + Through her native citron groves? +Oh! sweet would it be to rest + In the midst of the olive vales, +Where the orange blooms and the rose perfumes + The breath of the balmy gales! + But no! no! no!-- + Though sweet be its wooing air, + I never would roam from my island home, + To scenes though fair! + +Should I pass from pole to pole? + Should I seek the western skies, +Where the giant rivers roll, + And the mighty mountains rise? +Or those treacherous isles that lie + In the midst of the sunny deeps, +Where the cocoa stands on the glistening sands, + And the dread tornado sweeps! + Ah! no! no! no! + They have no charms for me; + I never would roam from my island home, + Though poor it be! + +Poor!--oh! 'tis rich in all + That flows from Nature's hand; +Rich in the emerald wall + That guards its emerald land! +Are Italy's fields more green? + Do they teem with a richer store +Than the bright green breast of the Isle of the West, + And its wild, luxuriant shore? + Ah! no! no! no! + Upon it heaven doth smile; + Oh, I never would roam from my native home, + My own dear isle! + + + +LOVE'S LANGUAGE. + +Need I say how much I love thee?-- + Need my weak words tell, +That I prize but heaven above thee, + Earth not half so well? +If this truth has failed to move thee, + Hope away must flee; +If thou dost not feel I love thee, + Vain my words would be! + +Need I say how long I've sought thee-- + Need my words declare, +Dearest, that I long have thought thee + Good and wise and fair? +If no sigh this truth has brought thee, + Woe, alas! to me; +Where thy own heart has not taught thee, + Vain my words would be! + +Need I say when others wooed thee, + How my breast did pine, +Lest some fond heart that pursued thee + Dearer were than mine? +If no pity then came to thee, + Mixed with love for me, +Vainly would my words imbue thee, + Vain my words would be! + +Love's best language is unspoken, + Yet how simply known; +Eloquent is every token, + Look, and touch, and tone. +If thy heart hath not awoken, + If not yet on thee +Love's sweet silent light hath broken, + Vain my words would be! + +Yet, in words of truest meaning, + Simple, fond, and few; +By the wild waves intervening, + Dearest, I love you! +Vain the hopes my heart is gleaning, + If, long since to thee, +My fond heart required unscreening, + Vain my words will be! + + + +THE FIRESIDE. + +I have tasted all life's pleasures, I have snatched at all its joys, +The dance's merry measures and the revel's festive noise; +Though wit flashed bright the live-long night, and flowed the ruby tide, +I sighed for thee, I sighed for thee, my own fireside! + +In boyhood's dreams I wandered far across the ocean's breast, +In search of some bright earthly star, some happy isle of rest; +I little thought the bliss I sought in roaming far and wide +Was sweetly centred all in thee, my own fireside! + +How sweet to turn at evening's close from all our cares away, +And end in calm, serene repose, the swiftly passing day! +The pleasant books, the smiling looks of sister or of bride, +All fairy ground doth make around one's own fireside! + +"My Lord" would never condescend to honour my poor hearth; +"His Grace" would scorn a host or friend of mere plebeian birth; +And yet the lords of human kind, whom man has deified, +For ever meet in converse sweet around my fireside! + +The poet sings his deathless songs, the sage his lore repeats, +The patriot tells his country's wrongs, the chief his warlike feats; +Though far away may be their clay, and gone their earthly pride, +Each god-like mind in books enshrined still haunts my fireside! + +Oh, let me glance a moment through the coming crowd of years, +Their triumphs or their failures, their sunshine or their tears; +How poor or great may be my fate, I care not what betide, +So peace and love but hallow thee, my own fireside! + +Still let me hold the vision close, and closer to my sight; +Still, still, in hopes elysian, let my spirit wing its flight; +Still let me dream, life's shadowy stream may yield from out its tide, +A mind at rest, a tranquil breast, a quiet fireside! + + + +THE BANISHED SPIRIT'S SONG.[20] + +Beautiful clime, where I've dwelt so long, +In mirth and music, in gladness and song! +Fairer than aught upon earth art thou-- +Beautiful clime, must I leave thee now? + +No more shall I join the circle bright +Of my sister nymphs, when they dance at night +In their grottos cool and their pearly halls, +When the glowworm hangs on the ivy walls! + +No more shall I glide o'er the waters blue, +With a crimson shell for my light canoe, +Or a rose-leaf plucked from the neighbouring trees, +Piloted o'er by the flower-fed breeze! + +Oh! must I leave those spicy gales, +Those purple hills and those flowery vales? +Where the earth is strewed with pansy and rose, +And the golden fruit of the orange grows! + +Oh! must I leave this region fair, +For a world of toil and a life of care? +In its dreary paths how long must I roam, +Far away from my fairy home? + +The song of birds and the hum of bees, +And the breath of flowers, are on the breeze; +The purple plum and the cone-like pear, +Drooping, hang in the rosy air! + +The fountains scatter their pearly rain +On the thirsty flowers and the ripening grain; +The insects sport in the sunny beam, +And the golden fish in the laughing stream. + +The Naiads dance by the river's edge, +On the low, soft moss and the bending sedge; +Wood-nymphs and satyrs and graceful fawns +Sport in the woods, on the grassy lawns! + +The slanting sunbeams tip with gold +The emerald leaves in the forests old-- +But I must away from this fairy scene, +Those leafy woods and those valleys green! + + +20. Written in early youth. + + + +REMEMBRANCE. + +With that pleasant smile thou wearest, +Thou art gazing on the fairest + Wonders of the earth and sea: +Do thou not, in all thy seeing, +Lose the mem'ry of one being + Who at home doth think of thee. + +In the capital of nations, +Sun of all earth's constellations, + Thou art roaming glad and free: +Do thou not, in all thy roving, +Lose the mem'ry of one loving + Heart at home that beats for thee. + +Strange eyes around thee glisten, +To a strange tongue thou dost listen, + Strangers bend the suppliant knee: +Do thou not, for all their seeming +Truth, forget the constant beaming + Eyes at home that watch for thee. + +Stately palaces surround thee, +Royal parks and gardens bound thee-- + Gardens of the 'Fleur de Lis': +Do thou not, for all their splendour, +Quite forget the humble, tender + Thoughts at home, that turn to thee. + +When, at length of absence weary, +When the year grows sad and dreary, + And an east wind sweeps the sea; +Ere the days of dark November, +Homeward turn, and then remember + Hearts at home that pine for thee! + + + +THE CLAN OF MAC CAURA.[21] + +Oh! bright are the names of the chieftains and sages, +That shine like the stars through the darkness of ages, +Whose deeds are inscribed on the pages of story, +There for ever to live in the sunshine of glory, +Heroes of history, phantoms of fable, +Charlemagne's champions, and Arthur's Round Table; +Oh! but they all a new lustre could borrow +From the glory that hangs round the name of MacCaura! + +Thy waves, Manzanares, wash many a shrine, +And proud are the castles that frown o'er the Rhine, +And stately the mansions whose pinnacles glance +Through the elms of Old England and vineyards of France; +Many have fallen, and many will fall, +Good men and brave men have dwelt in them all, +But as good and as brave men, in gladness and sorrow, +Have dwelt in the halls of the princely MacCaura! + +Montmorency, Medina, unheard was thy rank +By the dark-eyed Iberian and light-hearted Frank, +And your ancestors wandered, obscure and unknown, +By the smooth Guadalquiver and sunny Garonne. +Ere Venice had wedded the sea, or enrolled +The name of a Doge in her proud "Book of Gold;" +When her glory was all to come on like the morrow, +There were the chieftains and kings of the clan of MacCaura! + +Proud should thy heart beat, descendant of Heber,[22] +Lofty thy head as the shrines of the Guebre,[23] +Like them are the halls of thy forefathers shattered, +Like theirs is the wealth of thy palaces scattered. +Their fire is extinguished--thy banner long furled-- +But how proud were ye both in the dawn of the world! +And should both fade away, oh! what heart would not sorrow +O'er the towers of the Guebre--the name of MacCaura! + +What a moment of glory to cherish and dream on, +When far o'er the sea came the ships of Heremon, +With Heber, and Ir, and the Spanish patricians, +To free Inisfail from the spells of magicians.[24] +Oh! reason had these for their quaking and pallor, +For what magic can equal the strong sword of valour? +Better than spells are the axe and the arrow, +When wielded or flung by the hand of MacCaura! + +From that hour a MacCaura had reigned in his pride +O'er Desmond's green valleys and rivers so wide, +From thy waters, Lismore, to the torrents and rills +That are leaping for ever down Brandon's brown hills; +The billows of Bantry, the meadows of Bear, +The wilds of Evaugh, and the groves of Glancare, +From the Shannon's soft shores to the banks of the Barrow, +All owned the proud sway of the princely MacCaura! + +In the house of Miodchuart,[25] by princes surrounded, +How noble his step when the trumpet was sounded, +And his clansmen bore proudly his broad shield before him, +And hung it on high in that bright palace o'er him; +On the left of the monarch the chieftain was seated, +And happy was he whom his proud glances greeted: +'Mid monarchs and chiefs at the great Fes of Tara, +Oh! none was to rival the princely MacCaura! + +To the halls of the Red Branch,[26] when the conquest was o'er, +The champions their rich spoils of victory bore, +And the sword of the Briton, the shield of the Dane, +Flashed bright as the sun on the walls of Eamhain; +There Dathy and Niall bore trophies of war, +From the peaks of the Alps and the waves of Loire; +But no knight ever bore from the hills of Ivaragh +The breast-plate or axe of a conquered MacCaura! + +In chasing the red deer what step was the fleetest?-- +In singing the love song what voice was the sweetest?-- +What breast was the foremost in courting the danger?-- +What door was the widest to shelter the stranger?-- +In friendship the truest, in battle the bravest, +In revel the gayest, in council the gravest?-- +A hunter to-day and a victor to-morrow?-- +Oh! who but a chief of the princely MacCaura! + +But, oh! proud MacCaura, what anguish to touch on +The fatal stain of thy princely escutcheon; +In thy story's bright garden the one spot of bleakness, +Through ages of valour the one hour of weakness! +Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred and royal-- +Thou to kneel to the Norman and swear to be loyal! +Oh! a long night of horror, and outrage, and sorrow, +Have we wept for thy treason, base Diarmid MacCaura![27] + +Oh! why ere you thus to the foreigner pandered, +Did you not bravely call round your emerald standard, +The chiefs of your house of Lough Lene and Clan Awley +O'Donogh, MacPatrick, O'Driscoll, MacAwley, +O'Sullivan More, from the towers of Dunkerron, +And O'Mahon, the chieftain of green Ardinterran? +As the sling sends the stone or the bent bow the arrow, +Every chief would have come at the call of MacCaura. + +Soon, soon didst thou pay for that error in woe, +Thy life to the Butler, thy crown to the foe, +Thy castles dismantled, and strewn on the sod, +And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys of God! +No more in thy halls is the wayfarer fed, +Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft heather spread, +Nor the "clairsech's" sweet notes, now in mirth, now in sorrow, +All, all have gone by, but the name of MacCaura! + +MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by, +But its name cannot fade, and its fame cannot die, +Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves, shine +Around no green forests or castles of thine-- +Though the shrines that you founded no incense doth hallow, +Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Allo, +One treasure thou keepest, one hope for the morrow-- +True hearts yet beat of the clan of MacCaura! + + +21. MacCarthaig, or MacCarthy. + +22. The eldest son of Milesius, King of Spain, in the legendary history +of Ireland. + +23. The Round Towers. + +24. The Tuatha Dedannans, so called, says Keating, from their skill in +necromancy, for which some were so famous as to be called gods. + +25. See Keating's "History of Ireland" and Petrie's "Tara." + +26. In the palace of Emania, in Ulster. + +27. Diarmid MacCaura, King of Desmond, and Daniel O'Brien, King of +Thomond, were the first of the Irish princes to swear fealty to Henry +II. + + + +THE WINDOW. + +At my window, late and early, + In the sunshine and the rain, +When the jocund beams of morning +Come to wake me from my napping, +With their golden fingers tapping + At my window pane: +From my troubled slumbers flitting, + From the dreamings fond and vain, +From the fever intermitting, +Up I start, and take my sitting + At my window pane:-- + +Through the morning, through the noontide, + Fettered by a diamond chain, +Through the early hours of evening, +When the stars begin to tremble, +As their shining ranks assemble + O'er the azure plain: +When the thousand lamps are blazing + Through the street and lane-- +Mimic stars of man's upraising-- +Still I linger, fondly gazing + From my window pane! + +For, amid the crowds slow passing, + Surging like the main, +Like a sunbeam among shadows, +Through the storm-swept cloudy masses, +Sometimes one bright being passes + 'Neath my window pane: +Thus a moment's joy I borrow + From a day of pain. +See, she comes! but--bitter sorrow! +Not until the slow to-morrow, + Will she come again. + + + +AUTUMN FEARS. + +The weary, dreary, dripping rain, + From morn till night, from night till morn, +Along the hills and o'er the plain, + Strikes down the green and yellow corn; +The flood lies deep upon the ground, + No ripening heat the cold sun yields, +And rank and rotting lies around + The glory of the summer fields! + +How full of fears, how racked with pain, + How torn with care the heart must be, +Of him who sees his golden grain + Laid prostrate thus o'er lawn and lea; +For all that nature doth desire, + All that the shivering mortal shields, +The Christmas fare, the winter's fire, + All comes from out the summer fields. + +I too have strayed in pleasing toil + Along youth's and fertile meads; +I too within Hope's genial soil + Have, trusting, placed Love's golden seeds; +I too have feared the chilling dew, + The heavy rain when thunder pealed, +Lest Fate might blight the flower that grew + For me in Hope's green summer field. + +Ah! who can paint that beauteous flower, + Thus nourished by celestial dew, +Thus growing fairer, hour by hour, + Delighting more, the more it grew; +Bright'ning, not burdening the ground, + Nor proud with inward worth concealed, +But scattering all its fragrance round + Its own sweet sphere, its summer field! + +At morn the gentle flower awoke, + And raised its happy face to God; +At evening, when the starlight broke, + It bending sought the dewy sod; +And thus at morn, and thus at even, + In fragrant sighs its heart revealed, +Thus seeking heaven, and making heaven + Within its own sweet summer field! + +Oh! joy beyond all human joy! + Oh! bliss beyond all earthly bliss! +If pitying Fate will not destroy + My hopes of such a flower as this! +How happy, fond, and heaven-possest, + My heart will be to tend and shield, +And guard upon my grateful breast + The pride of that sweet summer field! + + + +FATAL GIFTS. + +The poet's heart is a fatal boon, + And fatal his wondrous eye, + And the delicate ear, + So quick to hear, + Over the earth and sky, +Creation's mystic tune! +Soon, soon, but not too soon, +Does that ear grow deaf and that eye grow dim, +And nature becometh a waste for him, + Whom, born for another sphere, + Misery hath shipwrecked here! + +For what availeth his sensitive heart + For the struggle and stormy strife + That the mariner-man, + Since the world began + Has braved on the sea of life? +With fearful wonder his eye doth start, +When it should be fixed on the outspread chart +That pointeth the way to golden shores-- +Rent are his sails and broken his oars, + And he sinks without hope or plan, + With his floating caravan. + +And love, that should be his strength and stay, + Becometh his bane full soon, + Like flowers that are born + Of the beams at morn, + But die of their heat ere noon. +Far better the heart were the sterile clay +Where the shining sands of the desert play, +And where never the perishing flow'ret gleams +Than the heart that is fed with its wither'd dreams, + And whose love is repelled with scorn, + Like the bee by the rose's thorn. + + + +SWEET MAY. + +The summer is come!--the summer is come! + With its flowers and its branches green, +Where the young birds chirp on the blossoming boughs, + And the sunlight struggles between: +And, like children, over the earth and sky + The flowers and the light clouds play; +But never before to my heart or eye + Came there ever so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + +Oh! many a time have I wandered out + In the youth of the opening year, +When Nature's face was fair to my eye, + And her voice was sweet to my ear! +When I numbered the daisies, so few and shy, + That I met in my lonely way; +But never before to my heart or eye, + Came there ever so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + +If the flowers delayed, or the beams were cold, + Or the blossoming trees were bare, +I had but to look in the poet's book, + For the summer is always there! +But the sunny page I now put by, + And joy in the darkest day! +For never before to my heart or eye, + Came there ever so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + +For, ah! the belov'ed at length has come, + Like the breath of May from afar; +And my heart is lit with gentle eyes, + As the heavens by the evening star. +'Tis this that brightens the darkest sky, + And lengthens the faintest ray, +And makes me feel that to the heart or eye + There was never so sweet a May + As this-- + Sweet May! sweet May! + + + +FERDIAH;[28] +OR, THE FIGHT AT THE FORD. + +An Episode from the Ancient Irish Epic Romance, "The Tain Bo Cuailgne; +or, the Cattle Prey of Cuailgne." + +["The 'Tain Bo Cuailgne'" says the late Professor O'Curry, "is to Irish +what the Argonautic Expedition, or the Seven against Thebes, is to +Grecian history." For an account of this, perhaps the earliest epic +romance of Western Europe, see the Professor's "Lectures on the +Manuscript Materials of Irish History." + +The Fight of Cuchullin with Ferdiah took place in the modern county of +Louth, at the ford of Ardee, which still preserves the name of the +departed champion, Ardee being the softened form of 'Ath Ferdiah,' or +Ferdiah's Ford. + +The circumstances under which this famous combat took place are thus +succinctly mentioned by O'Curry, in his description of the Tain Bo +Cuailgne:-- + +"Cuchulainn confronts the invaders of his province, demands single +combat, and conjures his opponents by the laws of Irish chivalry (the +'Fir comhlainn') not to advance farther until they had conquered him. +This demand, in accordance with the Irish laws of warfare, is granted; +and then the whole contest is resolved into a succession of single +combats, in each of which Cuchulainn was victorious."--"Lectures," p. +37. + +The original Irish text of this episode, with a literal translation, on +which the present metrical version is founded, may be consulted in the +appendix to the second series of the Lectures by O'Curry, vol. ii., p. +413. + +The date assigned to the famous expedition of the Tain Bo Cuailgne, and +consequently to the episode which forms the subject of the present poem, +is the close of the century immediately preceding the commencement of +the Christian era. This will account for the complete absence of all +Christian allusions, so remarkable throughout the poem: an additional +proof, if that were required, of its extreme antiquity.] + +Cuchullin the great chief had pitched his tent, +From Samhain[29] time, till now 'twas budding spring, +Fast by the Ford, and held the land at bay. +All Erin, save the fragment that he led, +His sword held back, nor dared a man to cross +The rippling Ford without Cuchullin's leave: +Chief after chief had fallen in the attempt; +And now the men of Erin through the night +Asked in dismay, "Oh! who shall be the next +To face the northern hound[30] and free the Ford?" +"Let it now be," with one accord they cried, +"Ferdiah, son of Daman Dare's son, +Of Domnann[31] lord, and all its warrior men." +The chiefs thus fated now to meet as foes +In early life were friends--had both been taught +All feats of arms by the same skilful hands +In Scatha's[32] school beneath the peaks of Skye, +Which still preserve Cuchullin's glorious name. +One feat of arms alone Cuchullin knew +Ferdiah knew not of--the fatal cast-- +The dread expanding force of the gaebulg[33] +Flung from the foot resistless on the foe. +But, on the other hand, Ferdiah wore +A skin-protecting suit of flashing steel[34] +Surpassing all in Erin known till then. +At length the council closed, and to the chief +Heralds were sent to tell them that the choice +That night had fallen on him; but he within +His tent retired, received them not, nor went. +For well he knew the purport of their suit +Was this--that he should fight beside the Ford +His former fellow-pupil and his friend. +Then Mave,[35] the queen, her powerful druids sent, +Armed not alone with satire's scorpion stings, +But with the magic power even on the face, +By their malevolent taunts and biting sneers, +To raise three blistering blots[36] that typified +Disgrace, dishonour, and a coward's shame, +Which with their mortal venom him would kill, +Or on the hour, or ere nine days had sped, +If he declined the combat, and refused +Upon the instant to come forth with them, +And so, for honour's sake, Ferdiah came. +For he preferred to die a warrior's death, +Pierced to the heart by a proud foeman's spear, +Than by the serpent sting of slanderous tongues-- +By satire and abuse, and foul reproach. +When to the court he came, where the great queen +Held revel, he received all due respect: +The sweet intoxicating cup went round, +And soon Ferdiah felt the power of wine. +Great were the rich rewards then promised him +For going forth to battle with the Hound: +A chariot worth seven cumals four times told,[37] +The outfit then of twelve well-chosen men +Made of more colours than the rainbow knows, +His own broad plains of level fair Magh Aie,[38] +To him and his assured till time was o'er +Free of all tribute, without fee or fine; +The golden brooch, too, from the queen's own cloak, +And, above all, fair Finavair[39] for wife. +But doubtful was Ferdiah of the queen, +And half excited by the fiery cup, +And half distrustful, knowing wily Mave, +He asked for more assurance of her faith. +Then she to him, in rhythmic rise of song, +And he in measured ranns to her replied. + +MAVE.[40] + +A rich reward of golden rings + I'll give to thee, Ferdiah fair, +The forest, where the wild bird sings, + the broad green plain, with me thou'lt share; +Thy children and thy children's seed, + for ever, until time is o'er, +Shall be from every service freed + within the sea-surrounding shore. +Oh, Daman's son, Ferdiah fair, + oh, champion of the wounds renowned, +For thou a charm`ed life dost bear, + since ever by the victories crowned, +Oh! why the proffered gifts decline, + oh! why reject the nobler fame, +Which many an arm less brave than thine, + which many a heart less bold, would claim? + +FERDIAH. + +Without a guarantee, O queen! + without assurance made most sure, +Thy grassy plains, thy woodlands green, + thy golden rings are but a lure. +The champion's place is not for me + until thou art most firmly bound, +For dreadful will the battle be + between me and Emania's Hound. +For such is Chuland's name, + O queen, and such is Chuland's nature, too, +The noble Hound, the Hound of fame, + the noble heart to dare and do, +The fearful fangs that never yield, + the agile spring so swift and light: +Ah! dread the fortune of the field! + ah! fierce will be the impending fight! + +MAVE. + +I'll give a champion's guarantee, + and with thee here a compact make, +That in the assemblies thou shalt be + no longer bound thy place to take; +Rich silver-bitted bridles fair-- + for such each noble neck demands-- +And gallant steeds that paw the air, + shall all be given into thy hands. +For thou, Ferdiah, art indeed + a truly brave and valorous man, +The first of all the chiefs I lead, + the foremost hero in the van; +My chosen champion now thou art, + my dearest friend henceforth thou'lt be, +The very closest to my heart, + from every toll and tribute free. + +FERDIAH. + +Without securities, I say, + united with thy royal word, +I will not go, when breaks the day, + to seek the combat at the Ford. +That contest, while time runs its course, + and fame records what ne'er should die, +Shall live for ever in full force, + until the judgment day draws nigh. +I will not go, though death ensue, + though thou through some demoniac rite, +Even as thy druid sorcerers do, + canst kill me with thy words of might: +I will not go the Ford to free, + until, O queen! thou here dost swear +By sun and moon,[41] by land and sea, + by all the powers of earth and air. + +MAVE. + +Thou shalt have all; do thou decide. + I'll give thee an unbounded claim; +Until thy doubts are satisfied, + oh! bind us by each sacred name;-- +Bind us upon the hands of kings, + upon the hands of princes bind; +Bind us by every act that brings + assurance to the doubting mind. +Ask what thou wilt, and do not fear + that what thou wouldst cannot be wrought; +Ask what thou wilt, there standeth here + one who will ne'er refuse thee aught; +Ask what thou wilt, thy wildest wish + be certain thou shalt have this night, +For well I know that thou wilt kill this + man who meets thee in the fight. + +FERDIAH. + +I will have six securities, + no less will I accept from thee; +Be some our country's deities, + the lords of earth, and sky, and sea; +Be some thy dearest ones, O queen! + the darlings of thy heart and eye, +Before my fatal fall is seen + to-morrow, when the hosts draw nigh. +Do this, and though I lose my fame-- + do this, and though my life I lose, +The glorious championship I'll claim, + the glorious risk will not refuse. +On, on, in equal strength and might + shall I advance, O queenly Mave, +And Uladh's hero meet in fight, + and battle with Cuchullin brave. + +MAVE. + +Though Domnal[42] it should be, the sun, + swift-speeding in his fiery car; +Though Niaman's[43] dread name be one, + the consort of the God of War; +These, even these I'll give, though hard + to lure them from their realms serene, +For though they list to lowliest bard,[44] + they may be deaf unto a queen. +Bind it on Morand, if thou wilt, + to make assurance doubly sure; +Bind it, nor dream that dream of guilt + that such a pact will not endure. +By spirits of the wave and wind, + by every spell, by every art, +Bind Carpri Min of Manand, + bind my sons, the darlings of my heart. + +FERDIAH. + +O Mave! with venom of deceit + that adder tongue of thine o'erflows, +Nor is thy temper over-sweet, + as well thine earlier consort knows. +Thou'rt truly worthy of thy fame + for boastful speech and lust of power, +And well dost thou deserve thy name-- + the Brachail of Rathcroghan's tower.[45] +Thy words are fair and soft, O queen! + but still I crave one further proof-- +Give me the scarf of silken sheen, + give me the speckled satin woof, +Give from thy cloak's empurpled fold + the golden brooch so fair to see, +And when the glorious gift I hold, + for ever am I bound to thee. + +MAVE. + +Oh! art thou not my chosen chief, + my foremost champion, sure to win, +My tower, my fortress of relief, + to whom I give this twisted pin? +These, and a thousand gifts more rare, + the treasures of the earth and sea, +Jewels a queen herself might wear, + my grateful hands will give to thee. +And when at length beneath thy sword + the Hound of Ulster shall lie low, +When thou hast ope'd the long-locked Ford, + and let the unguarded water flow, +Then shall I give my daughter's hand, + then my own child shall be thy bride-- +She, the fair daughter of the land + where western Elgga's[46] waters glide. + +And thus did Mave Ferdiah bind to fight +Six chosen champions on the morrow morn, +Or combat with Cuchullin all alone, +Whichever might to him the easier seem. +And he, by the gods' names and by her sons, +Bound her the promise she had made to keep, +The rich reward to pay to him in full, +If by his hand Cuchullin should be slain. +For Fergus, young Cuchullin's early friend, +The steeds that night were harnessed, and he flew +Swift in his chariot to the hero's tent. +"Glad am I at thy coming, O my friend!" +Cuchullin said: "My pupil, I accept +With joy thy welcome," Fergus quick replied: +"But what I come for is to give thee news +Of him who here will fight thee in the morn." +"I listen," said Cuchullin, "do thou speak." +"Thine own companion is it, thine own peer, +Thy rival in all daring feats of arms, +Ferdiah, son of Daman, Dare's son, +Of Domnand lord and all its warrior men." +"Be sure of this," Cuchullin made reply, +"That never wish of mine it could have been +A friend should thus come forth with me to fight." +"It therefore doth behove thee now, my son," +Fergus replied, "to be upon thy guard, +Prepared at every point; for not like those +Who hitherto have come to fight with thee +Upon the 'Tain Bo Cuailgne,' is the chief, +Ferdiah, son of Daman, Dare's son." +"Here I have been," Cuchullin proudly said, +"From Samhain up to Imbule--from the first +Of winter days even to the first of spring-- +Holding the four great provinces in check +That make up Erin, not one foot have I +Yielded to any man in all that time, +Nor even to him shall I a foot give way." +And thus the parley went: first Fergus spoke, +Cuchullin then to him in turn replied: + +FERGUS. + +Time is it, O Cuchullin, to arise, + Time for the fearful combat to prepare; +For hither with the anger in his eyes, + To fight thee comes Ferdiah called the Fair. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Here I have been, nor has the task been light, + Holding all Erin's warriors at bay: +No foot of ground have I in recreant flight + Yielded to any man or shunned the fray. + +FERGUS. + +When roused to rage, resistless in his might, + Fearless the man is, for his sword ne'er fails: +A skin-protecting coat of armour bright + He wears, 'gainst which no valour e'er prevails. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Oh! brave in arms, my Fergus, say not so, + Urge not thy story further on the night:-- +On any friend, or facing any foe + I never was behind him in the fight. + +FERGUS. + +Brave is the man, I say, in battles fierce, + Him it will not be easy to subdue, +Swords cut him not, nor can the sharp spear pierce, + Strong as a hundred men to dare and do. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Well, should we chance to meet beside the Ford, + I and this chief whose valour ne'er has failed, +Story shall tell the fortune of each sword, + And who succumbed and who it was prevailed. + +FERGUS. + +Ah! liefer than a royal recompense + To me it were, O champion of the sword, +That thine it were to carry eastward hence + The proud Ferdiah's purple from the Ford. + +CUCHULLIN. + +I pledge my word, I vow, and not in vain, + Though in the combat we may be as one, +That it is I who shall the victory gain + Over the son of Daman, Dare's son. + +FERGUS. + +'Twas I that gathered eastward all the bands, + Revenging the foul wrong upon me wrought +By the Ultonians. Hither from their lands + The chiefs, the battle-warriors I have brought. + +CUCHULLIN. + +If Conor's royal strength had not decayed, + Hard would have been the strife on either side: +Mave of the Plain of Champions had not made + A foray then of so much boastful pride. + +FERGUS. + +To-day awaits thy hand a greater deed, + To battle with Ferdiah, Daman's son. +Hard, bloody weapons with sharp points thou'lt need, + Cuchullin, ere the victory be won. + +Then Fergus to the court and camp went back, +While to his people and his tent repaired +Ferdiah, and he told them of the pact +Made that same night between him and the queen. + +The dwellers in Ferdiah's tent that night +Were scant of comfort, a foreboding fear +Fell on their spirits and their hearts weighed down; +Because they knew in whatsoever fight +The mighty chiefs, the hundred-slaying two +Met face to face, that one of them must fall, +Or both, perhaps, or if but only one, +Certain were they it would their own lord be, +Since on the Tain Bo Cuailgne, it was plain +That no one with Cuchullin could contend. + + Nor was their chief less troubled; but at first +The fumes of the late revel overpowered +His senses, and he slept a heavy sleep. +Later he woke, the intoxicating steam +Had left his brain, and now in sober calm +All the anxieties of the impending fight +Pressed on his soul and made him grave.[47] He rose +From off his couch, and bade his charioteer +Harness his pawing horses to the car. +The boy would fain persuade his lord to stay, +Because he loved his master, and he felt +He went but to his death; but he repelled +The youth's advice, and spoke to him these words-- +"Oh! cease, my servant. I will not be turned +By any youth from what I have resolved." +And thus in speech and answer spoke the two-- + +FERDIAH. + +Let us go to this challenge, + Let us fly to the Ford, +When the raven shall croak + O'er my blood-dripping sword. +Oh, woe for Cuchullin! + That sword will be red; +Oh, woe! for to-morrow + The hero lies dead. + +CHARIOTEER. + +Thy words are not gentle, + Yet rest where thou art, +'Twill be dreadful to meet, + And distressful to part. +The champion of Ulster! + Oh! think what a foe! +In that meeting there's grief, + In that journey there's woe! + +FERDIAH. + +Thy counsel is craven, + Thy caution I slight, +No brave-hearted champion + Should shrink from the fight. +The blood I inherit + Doth prompt me to do-- +Let us go to the challenge, + To the Ford let us go! + +Then were the horses of Ferdiah yoked +Unto the chariot, and he rode full speed +Unto the Ford of battle, and the day +Began to break, and all the east grew red. + + Beside the Ford he halted. "Good, my friend," +He said unto his servant, "Spread for me +The skins and cushions of my chariot here +Beneath me, that I may a full deep sleep +Enjoy before the hour of fight arrives; +For in the latter portion of the night +I slept not, thinking of the fight to come." +Unharnessed were the horses, and the boy +Spread out the cushions and the chariot's skins, +And heavy sleep fell on Ferdiah's lids. + + Now of Cuchullin will I speak. He rose +Not until day with all its light had come, +In order that the men of Erin ne'er +Should say of him that it was fear or dread +That made him from a restless couch arise. +When in the fulness of its light at length +Shone forth the day, he bade his charioteer +Harness his horses and his chariot yoke. +"Harness my horses, good, my servant," said +Cuchullin, "and my chariot yoke for me, +For lo! an early-rising champion comes +To meet us here beside the Ford to-day-- +Ferdiah, son of Daman, Dare's son." +"My lord, the steeds are ready to thy hand; +Thy chariot stands here yoked, do thou step in; +The noble car will not disgrace its lord." + + Into the chariot, then, the dextrous, bold, +Red-sworded, battle-winning hero sprang +Cuchullin, son of Sualtam, at a bound. +Invisible Bocanachs and Bananachs, +And Geniti Glindi[48] shouted round the car, +And demons of the earth and of the air. +For thus the Tuatha de Danaans used +By sorceries to raise those fearful cries +Around him, that the terror and the fear +Of him should be the greater, as he swept +On with his staff of spirits to the war. + + Soon was it when Ferdiah's charioteer +Heard the approaching clamour and the shout, +The rattle and the clatter, and the roar, +The whistle, and the thunder, and the tramp, +The clanking discord of the missive shields, +The clang of swords, the hissing sound of spears, +The tinkling of the helmet, the sharp crash +Of armour and of arms, the straining ropes, +The dangling bucklers, the resounding wheels, +The creaking chariot, and the proud approach +Of the triumphant champion of the Ford. + Clutching his master's robe, the charioteer +Cried out, "Ferdiah, rise! for lo, thy foes +Are on thee!" Then the Spirit of Insight fell +Prophetic on the youth, and thus he sang. + +CHARIOTEER. + +I hear the rushing of a car, + Near and more near its proud wheels run +A chariot for the God of War + Bursts--as from clouds the sun! +Over Bregg-Ross it speeds along, + Hark! its thunders peal afar! +Oh! its steeds are swift and strong, + And the Victories guide that car. + +The Hound of Ulster shaketh the reins, + And white with foam is each courser's mouth; +The Hawk of Ulster swoops o'er the plains + To his quarry here in the south. +Like wintry storm that warrior's form, + Slaughter and Death beside him rush; +The groaning air is dark and warm, + And the low clouds bleed and blush.[49] + +Oh, woe to him that is here on the hill, + Who is here on the hillock awaiting the Hound; +Last year it was in a vision of ill + I saw this sight and I heard this sound. +Methought Emania's Hound drew nigh, + Methought the Hound of Battle drew near, +I heard his steps and I saw his eye, + And again I see and I hear. + +Then answer made Ferdiah in this wise: +"Why dost thou chafe me, talking of this man? +For thou hast never ceased to sing his praise +Since from his home he came. Thou surely art +Not without wage for this: but nathless know +Ailill and Mave have both foretold--by me +This man shall fall, shall fall for a reward +Just as the deed: This day he shall be slain, +For it is fated that I free the Ford. +'Tis time for the relief."--And thus they spake: + +FERDIAH. + +Yes, it is time for the relief; + Be silent then, nor speak his praise, +For prophecy forebodes this chief + Shall pass not the predestined days; +Does fate for this forego its claim, + That Cuailgne's champion here should come +In all his pride and pomp of fame?-- + Be sure he comes but to his doom. + +CHARIOTEER. + +If Cuailgne's champion here I see + In all his pride and pomp of fame, +He little heeds the prophecy, + So swift his course, so straight his aim. +Towards us he flies, as flies the gleam + Of lightning, or as waters flow +From some high cliff o'er which the stream + Drops in the foaming depths below. + +FERDIAH. + +Highly rewarded thou must be, + For much reward thou sure canst claim, +Else why with such persistency + Thus sing his praises since he came? +And now that he approacheth nigh, + And now that he doth draw more near, +It seems it is to glorify + And not to attack him thou art here. + +Not long Ferdiah's charioteer had gazed +With wondering look on the majestic car, +When, as with thunder-speed it wheeled more near, +He saw its whole construction and its plan: +A fair, flesh-seeking, four-peaked front it had, +And for its body a magnificent creit +Fashioned for war, in which the hero stood +Full-armed and brandishing a mighty spear, +While o'er his head a green pavilion hung; +Beneath, two fleetly-bounding, large-eared, fierce, +Whale-bellied, lively-hearted, high-flanked, proud, +Slender-legged, wide-hoofed, broad-buttocked, prancing steeds, +Exulting leaped and bore the car along: +Under one yoke, the broad-backed steed was gray, +Under the other, black the long-maned steed. + +Like to a hawk swooping from off a cliff, +Upon a day of harsh and biting wind, +Or like a spring gust on a wild March morn +Rushing resistless o'er a level plain, +Or like the fleetness of a stag when first +'Tis started by the hounds in its first field-- +So swept the horses of Cuchullin's car, +Bounding as if o'er fiery flags they flew, +Making the earth to shake beneath their tread, +And tremble 'neath the fleetness of their speed. + +At length, upon the north side of the Ford, +Cuchullin stopped. Upon the southern bank +Ferdiah stood, and thus addressed the chief: +"Glad am I, O Cuchullin, thou hast come." +"Up to this day," Cuchullin made reply, +"Thy welcome would by me have been received +As coming from a friend, but not to-day. +Besides, 'twere fitter that I welcomed thee, +Than that to me thou shouldst the welcome give; +'Tis I that should go forth to fight with thee, +Not thou to me, because before thee are +My women and my children, and my youths, +My herds and flocks, my horses and my steeds." + Ferdiah, half in scorn, spake then these words-- +And then Cuchullin answered in his turn. +"Good, O Cuchullin, what untoward fate +Has brought thee here to measure swords with me? +For when we two with Scatha lived, in Skye, +With Uatha, and with Aife, thou wert then +My page to spread my couch for me at night, +Or tie my spears together for the chase." + "True hast thou spoken," said Cuchullin; "yes, +I then was young, thy junior, and I did +For thee the services thou dost recall; +A different story shall be told of us +From this day forth, for on this day I feel +Earth holds no champion that I dare not fight!" +And thus invectives bitter, sharp and cold, +Between the two were uttered, and first spake +Ferdiah, then alternate each with each. + +FERDIAH. + +What has brought thee here, O Hound, + To encounter a strong foe? +O'er the trappings of thy steeds + Crimson-red thy blood shall flow. +Woe is in thy journey, woe; + Let the cunning leech prepare; +Shouldst thou ever reach thy home, + Thou shalt need his care. + +CUCHULLIN. + +I, who here with warriors fought, + With the lordly chiefs of hosts, +With a hundred men at once, + Little heed thy empty boasts. +Thee beneath the wave to place, + Thee to strike and thee to slay +In the first path of our fight + Am I here to-day. + +FERDIAH. + +Thy reproach in me behold, + For 'tis I that deed will do, +'Tis of me that Fame shall tell + He the Ultonian's champion slew. +Yes, in spite of all their hosts, + Yes, in spite of all their prayers: +So it shall long be told + That the loss was theirs. + +CUCHULLIN. + +How, then, shall we first engage-- + Is it with the hard-edged sword? +In what order shall we go + To the battle of the Ford? +Shall we in our chariots ride? + Shall we wield the bloody spear? +How am I to hew thee down + With thy proud hosts here? + +FERDIAH. + +Ere the setting of the sun, + Ere shall come the darksome night, +If again thou must be told, + With a mountain thou shalt fight: +Thee the Ultonians will extol, + Thence impetuous wilt thou grow, +Oh! their grief, when through their ranks + Will thy spectre go! + +CUCHULLIN. + +Thou hast fallen in danger's gap, + Yes, thy end of life is nigh; +Sharp spears shall be plied on thee + Fairly 'neath the open sky: +Pompous thou wilt be and vain + Till the time for talk is o'er, +From this day a battle-chief + Thou shalt be no more. + +FERDIAH. + +Cease thy boastings, for the world + Sure no braggart hath like thee: +Thou art not the chosen chief-- + Thou hast not the champion's fee:-- +Without action, without force, + Thou art but a giggling page; +Yes, thou trembler, with thy heart + Like a bird's in cage. + +CUCHULLIN. + +When we were with Scatha once, + It but seemed our valour's due +That we should together fight, + Both as one our sports pursue. +Thou wert then my dearest friend, + Comrade, kinsman, thou wert all,-- +Ah, how sad, if by my hand + Thou at last should fall. + +FERDIAH. + +Much of honour shalt thou lose, + We may then mere words forego:-- +On a stake thy head shall be + Ere the early cock shall crow. +O Cuchullin, Cuailgne's pride, + Grief and madness round thee twine; +I will do thee every ill, + For the fault is thine. + +"Good, O Ferdiah, 'twas no knightly act," +Cuchullin said, "to have come meanly here, +To combat and to fight with an old friend, +Through instigation of the wily Mave, +Through intermeddling of Ailill the king; +To none of those who here before thee came +Was victory given, for they all fell by me:-- +Thou too shalt win nor victory, nor increase +Of fame in this encounter thou dost dare, +For as they fell, so thou by me shall fall." +Thus was he saying and he spake these words, +To which Ferdiah listened, not unmoved. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Come not to me, O champion of the host, + Come not to me, Ferdiah, as my foe, +For though it is thy fate to suffer most, + All, all must feel the universal woe. + +Come not to me defying what is right, + Come not to me, thy life is in my power; +Ah, the dread issue of each former fight + Why hast thou not remembered ere this hour? + +Art thou not bright with diverse dainty arms, + A purple girdle and a coat of mail? +And yet to win the maid of peerless charms + For whom thou dar'st the battle thou shalt fail. + +Yes, Finavair, the daughter of the queen, + The faultless form, the gold without alloy, +The glorious virgin of majestic mien, + Shalt not be thine, Ferdiah, to enjoy. + +No, the great prize shall not by thee be won,-- + A fatal lure, a false, false light is she, +To numbers promised and yet given to none, + And wounding many as she now wounds thee. + +Break not thy vow, never with me to fight, + Break not the bond that once thy young heart gave, +Break not the truth we both so loved to plight, + Come not to me, O champion bold and brave! + +To fifty champions by her smiles made slaves + The maid was proffered, and not slight the gift; +By me they have been sent into their graves, + From me they met destruction sure and swift. + +Though vauntingly Ferbaeth my arms defied, + He of a house of heroes prince and peer, +Short was the time until I tamed his pride + With one swift cast of my true battle-spear. + +Srub Daire's valour too had swift decline: + Hundreds of women's secrets he possessed, +Great at one time was his renown as thine, + In cloth of gold, not silver, was he dressed. + +Though 'twas to me the woman was betrothed + On whom the chiefs of the fair province smile, +To shed thy blood my spirit would have loathed + East, west, or north, or south of all the isle. + +"Good, O Ferdiah," still continuing, spoke +Cuchullin, "thus it is that thou shouldst not +Have come with me to combat and to fight; +For when we were with Scatha, long ago, +With Uatha and with Aife, we were wont +To go together to each battle-field, +To every combat and to every fight, +Through every forest, every wilderness, +Through every darksome path and dangerous way." +And thus he said and thus he spake these words: + +CUCHULLIN. + +We were heart-comrades then,-- +Comrades in crowds of men, +In the same bed have lain, + When slumber sought us; +In countries far and near, +Hurling the battle spear, +Chasing the forest deer, + As Scatha taught us. + + "O Cuchullin of the beautiful feats," +Replied Ferdiah, "though we have pursued +Together thus the arts of war and peace, +And though the bonds of friendship that we swore +Thou hast recalled to mind, from me shall come +Thy first of wounds. O Hound, remember not +Our old companionship, which shall not now +Avail thee, shall avail thee not, O Hound!" +"Too long here have we waited in this way," +Again resumed Ferdiah. "To what arms, +Say then, Cuchullin, shall we now resort?" +"The choice of arms is thine until the night," +Cuchullin made reply; "for so it chanced +That thou shouldst be the first to reach the Ford." +"Dost thou at all remember," then rejoined +Ferdiah, "those swift missive spears with which +We practised oft with Scatha in our youth, +With Uatha and with Aife, and our friends?" +"Them I, indeed, remember well," replied +Cuchullin. "If thou dost remember well, +Let us to them resort," Ferdiah said. +Their missive weapons then on either side +They both resorted to. Upon their arms +They braced two emblematic missive shields, +And their eight well-turned-handled lances took, +Their eight quill-javelins also, and their eight +White ivory-hilted swords, and their eight spears, +Sharp, ivory-hafted, with hard points of steel. +Betwixt the twain the darts went to and fro, +Like bees upon the wing on a fine day; +No cast was made that was not sure to hit. +From morn to nigh mid-day the missiles flew, +Till on the bosses of the brazen shields +Their points were blunted, but though true the aim, +And excellent the shooting, the defence +Was so complete that not a wound was given, +And neither champion drew the other's blood. +"'Tis time to drop these feats," Ferdiah said, +"For not by such as these shall we decide +Our battle here this day." "Let us desist," +Cuchullin answered, "if the time hath come." +They ceased, and threw their missile shafts aside +Into the hands of their two charioteers. +"What weapons, O Cuchullin, shall we now +Resort to?" said Ferdiah. "Unto thee," +Cuchullin answered, "doth belong the choice +Of arms until the night, because thou wert +The first that reached the Ford." "Well, let us, then," +Ferdiah said, "resume our straight, smooth, hard, +Well-polished spears with their hard flaxen strings." +"Let us resume them, then," Cuchullin said. +They braced upon their arms two stouter shields, +And then resorted to their straight, smooth, hard, +Well-polished spears, with their hard flaxen strings.[50] +'Twas now mid-day, and thus 'till eventide +They shot against each other with the spears. +But though the guard was good on either side, +The shooting was so perfect that the blood +Ran from the wounds of each, by each made red. +"Let us now, O Cuchullin," interposed +Ferdiah, "for the present time desist." +"Let us indeed desist," Cuchullin said +"If, O Ferdiah, the fit time hath come." +They ceased, and laid their gory weapons down, +Their faithful charioteers' attendant care. +Each to the other gently then approached, +Each round the other's neck his hands entwined, +And gave him three fond kisses on the cheek. +Their horses fed in the same field that night, +Their charioteers were warmed at the same fire, +Their charioteers beneath their bodies spread +Green rushes, and beneath the heads the down +Of wounded men's soft pillows. Then the skilled +Professors of the art of healing came +With herbs, which to the scars of all their wounds +They put. Of every herb and healing plant +That to Cuchullin's wound they did apply, +He would an equal portion westward send +Over the Ford, Ferdiah's wounds to heal. +So that the men of Erin could not say, +If it should chance Ferdiah fell by him, +That it was through superior skill and care +Cuchullin was enabled him to slay. + + Of each kind, too, of palatable food +And sweet, intoxicating, pleasant drink, +The men of Erin to Ferdiah sent, +He a fair moiety across the Ford +Sent northward to Cuchullin, where he lay; +Because his own purveyors far surpassed +In numbers those the Ulster chief retained: +For all the federate hosts of Erin were +Purveyors to Ferdiah, with the hope +That he would beat Cuchullin from the Ford. +The Bregians[51] only were Cuchullin's friends, +His sole purveyors, and their wont it was +To come to him and talk to him at night. + + That night they rested there. Next morn they rose +And to the Ford of battle early came. +"What weapons shall we use to-day?" inquired +Cuchullin. "Until night the choice is thine," +Replied Ferdiah; "for the choice of arms +Has hitherto been mine." "Then let us take +Our great broad spears to-day," Cuchullin said, +"And may the thrusting bring us to an end +Sooner than yesterday's less powerful darts. +Let then our charioteers our horses yoke +Beneath our chariots, so that we to-day +May from our horses and our chariots fight." +Ferdiah answered: "Let it so be done." +And then they braced their two broad, full-firm shields +Upon their arms that day, and in their hands +That day they took their great broad-bladed spears. + And thus from early morn to evening's close +They smote each other with such dread effect +That both were pierced, and both made red with gore,-- +Such wounds, such hideous clefts in either breast +Lay open to the back, that if the birds +Cared ever through men's wounded frames to pass, +They might have passed that day, and with them borne +Pieces of quivering flesh into the air. +When evening came, their very steeds were tired, +Their charioteers depressed, and they themselves +Worn out--even they the champions bold and brave. +"Let us from this, Ferdiah, now desist," +Cuchullin said; "for see, our charioteers +Droop, and our very horses flag and fail, +And when fatigued they yield, so well may we." +And further thus he spoke, persuading rest:-- + +CUCHULLIN. + +Not with the obstinate rage and spite +With which Fomorian pirates fight +Let us, since now has fallen the night, + Continue thus our feud; +In brief abeyance it may rest, +Now that a calm comes o'er each breast:-- +When with new light the world is blest, + Be it again renewed." + +"Let us desist, indeed," Ferdiah said, +"If the fit time hath come."--And so they ceased. +From them they threw their arms into the hands +Of their two charioteers. Each of them came +Forward to meet the other. Each his hands +Put round the other's neck, and thus embraced, +Gave to him three fond kisses on the cheek. +Their horses fed in the same field that night; +Their charioteers were warmed by the same fire. +Their charioteers beneath their bodies spread +Green rushes, and beneath their heads the down +Of wounded men's soft pillows. Then the skilled +Professors of the art of healing came +To tend them and to cure them through the night. +But they for all their skill could do no more, +So numerous and so dangerous were the wounds, +The cuts, and clefts, and scars so large and deep, +But to apply to them the potent charms +Of witchcraft, incantations, and barb spells, +As sorcerers use, to stanch the blood and stay +The life that else would through the wounds escape:-- +Of every charm of witchcraft, every spell, +Of every incantation that was used +To heal Cuchullin's wounds, a full fair half +Over the Ford was westward sent to heal +Ferdiah's hurts: of every sort of food, +And sweet, intoxicating, pleasant drink +The men of Erin to Ferdiah sent, +He a fair moiety across the Ford +Sent northward to Cuchullin where he lay, +Because his own purveyors far surpassed +In number those the Ulster chief retained. +For all the federate hosts of Erin were +Purveyors to Ferdiah, with the hope +That he would beat Cuchullin from the Ford. +The Bregians only were Cuchullin's friends-- +His sole purveyors--and their wont it was +To come to him, and talk with him at night. + +They rested there that night. Next morn they rose, +And to the Ford of battle forward came. +That day a great, ill-favoured, lowering cloud +Upon Ferdiah's face Cuchullin saw. +"Badly," said he, "dost thou appear this day, +Ferdiah, for thy hair has duskier grown +This day, and a dull stupour dims thine eyes, +And thine own face and form, and what thou wert +In outward seeming have deserted thee." +"'Tis not through fear of thee that I am so," +Ferdiah said, "for Erin doth not hold +This day a champion I could not subdue." +And thus betwixt the twain this speech arose, +And thus Cuchullin mourned and he replied: + +CUCHULLIN. + +O Ferdiah, if it be thou, +Certain am I that on thy brow +The blush should burn and the shame should rise, +Degraded man whom the gods despise, +Here at a woman's bidding to wend +To fight thy fellow-pupil and friend. + +FERDIAH. + +O Cuchullin, O valiant man, +Inflicter of wounds since the war began, +O true champion, a man must come +To the fated spot of his final home,-- +To the sod predestined by fate's decree +His resting-place and his grave to be. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Finavair, the daughter of Mave, +Although thou art her willing slave, +Not for thy long-felt love has been +Promised to thee by the wily queen,-- +No, it was but to test thy might +That thou wert lured into this fatal fight. + +FERDIAH. + +My might was tested long ago +In many a battle, as thou dost know, +Long, O Hound of the gentle rule, +Since we fought together in Scatha's school: +Never a braver man have I seen, +Never, I feel, hath a braver been. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Thou art the cause of what has been done, +O son of Daman, Dare's son, +Of all that has happened thou art the cause, +Whom hither a woman's counsel draws-- +Whom hither a wily woman doth send +To measure swords with thy earliest friend. + +FERDIAH. + +If I forsook the field, O Hound, +If I had turned from the battleground-- +This battleground without fight with thee, +Hard, oh, hard had it gone with me; +Bad should my name and fame have been +With King Ailill and with Mave the queen. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Though Mave of Croghan had given me food, +Even from her lips, though all of good +That the heart can wish or wealth can give +Were offered to me, there does not live +A king or queen on the earth for whom +I would do thee ill or provoke thy doom. + +FERDIAH. + +O Cuchullin, thou victor in fight, +Of battle triumphs the foremost knight; +To what result the fight may lead, +'Twas Mave alone that prompted the deed; +Not thine the fault, not thine the blame, +Take thou the victory and the fame. + +CUCHULLIN. + +My faithful heart is a clot of blood, +A feud thus forced cannot end in good; +Oh, woe to him who is here to be slain! +Oh, grief to him who his life will gain! +For feats of valour no strength have I +To fight the fight where my friend must die. + +"A truce to these invectives," then broke in +Ferdiah; "we far other work this day +Have yet to do than rail with woman's words. +Say, what shall be our arms in this day's fight?" +"Till night," Cuchullin said, "the choice is thine, +For yester morn the choice was given to me." +"Let us," Ferdiah answered, "then resort +Unto our heavy, sharp, hard-smiting swords, +For we are nearer to the end to-day +Of this our fight, by hewing, than we were +On yesterday by thrusting of the spears." +"So let us do, indeed," Cuchullin said. +Then on their arms two long great shields they took, +And in their hands their sharp, hard-smiting swords. +Each hewed the other with such furious strokes +That pieces larger than an infant's head +Of four weeks' old were cut from out the thighs +And great broad shoulder-blades of each brave chief. +And thus they persevered from early morn +Till evening's close in hewing with the swords. +"Let us desist," at length Ferdiah said. +"Let us indeed desist, if the fit time +Hath come," Cuchullin said; and so they ceased. +From them they cast their arms into the hands +Of their two charioteers; and though that morn +Their meeting was of two high-spirited men, +Their separation, now that night had come, +Was of two men dispirited and sad. +Their horses were not in one field that night, +Their charioteers were warmed not at one fire. +That night they rested there, and in the morn +Ferdiah early rose and sought alone +The Ford of battle, for he knew that day +Would end the fight, and that the hour drew nigh +When one or both of them should surely fall. + +Then was it for the first time he put on +His battle suit of battle and of fight, +Before Cuchullin came unto the Ford. +That battle suit of battle and of fight +Was this: His apron of white silk, with fringe +Of spangled gold around it, he put on +Next his white skin. A leather apron then, +Well sewn, upon his body's lower part +He placed, and over it a mighty stone +As large as any mill-stone was secured. +His firm, deep, iron apron then he braced +Over the mighty stone--an apron made +Of iron purified from every dross-- +Such dread had he that day of the Gaebulg. +His crested helm of battle on his head +He last put on--a helmet all ablaze +From forty gems in each compartment set, +Cruan, and crystal, carbuncles of fire, +And brilliant rubies of the Eastern world. +In his right hand a mighty spear he seized, +Destructive, sharply-pointed, straight and strong:-- +On his left side his sword of battle swung, +Curved, with its hilt and pommel of red gold. +Upon the slope of his broad back he placed +His dazzling shield, around whose margin rose +Fifty huge bosses, each of such a size +That on it might a full-grown hog recline, +Exclusive of the larger central boss +That raised its prominent round of pure red gold. + +Full many noble, varied, wondrous feats +Ferdiah on that day displayed, which he +Had never learned at any tutor's hand, +From Uatha, or from Aife, or from her, +Scatha, his early nurse in lonely Skye:-- +But which were all invented by himself +That day, to bring about Cuchullin's fall. + +Cuchullin to the Ford approached and saw +The many noble, varied, wondrous feats +Ferdiah on that day displayed on high. +"O Laegh, my friend," Cuchullin thus addressed +His charioteer, "I see the wondrous feats +Ferdiah doth display on high to-day: +All these on me in turn shall soon be tried, +And therefore note, that if it so should chance +I shall be first to yield, be sure to taunt, +Excite, revile me, and reproach me so, +That wrath and rage in me may rise the more:-- +If I prevail, then let thy words be praise, +Laud me, congratulate me, do thy best +To stimulate my courage to its height." +"It shall be done, Cuchullin," Laegh replied. + +Then was it that Cuchullin first assumed +His battle suit of battle: then he tried +Full many, various, noble, wondrous feats +He never learned from any tutor's hands, +From Uatha, or from Aife, or from her, +Scatha, his early nurse in lonely Skye. +Ferdiah saw these various feats, and knew +Against himself they soon would be applied. + +"Say, O Ferdiah, to what arms shall we +Resort in this day's fight?" Cuchullin said. +Ferdiah answered, "Unto thee belongs +The choice of weapons now until the night." +"Let us then try the Ford Feat on this day," +Replied Cuchullin. "Let us then, indeed," +Rejoined Ferdiah, with a careless air +Consenting, though in truth it was to him +The cause of grief to say so, since he knew +That in the Ford Feat lay Cuchullin's strength, +And that he never failed to overthrow +Champion or hero in that last appeal. + +Great was the feat that was performed that day +In and beside the Ford: the mighty two, +The two great heroes, warriors, champions, chiefs +Of western Europe--the two open hands +Laden with gifts of the north-western world,-- +The two beloved pillars that upheld +The valour of the Gaels--the two strong keys +That kept the bravery of the Gaels secure-- +Thus to be brought together from afar +To fight each other through the meddling schemes +Of Ailill and his wily partner Mave. + From each to each the missive weapons flew +From dawn of early morning to mid-day; +And when mid-day had come, the ire of both +Became more furious, and they drew more near. +Then was it that Cuchullin made a spring +From the Ford's brink, and came upon the boss +Of the great shield Ferdiah's arm upheld, +That thus he might, above the broad shield's rim, +Strike at his head. Ferdiah with a touch +Of his left elbow, gave the shield a shake +And cast Cuchullin from him like a bird, +Back to the brink of the Ford. Again he sprang +From the Ford's brink, and came upon the boss +Of the great shield once more, to strike his head +Over the rim. Ferdiah with a stroke +Of his left knee made the great shield to ring, +And cast Cuchullin back upon the brink, +As if he only were a little child. + Laegh saw the act. "Alas! indeed," said Laegh, +"The warrior casts thee from him in the way +That an abandoned woman would her child. +He flings thee as a river flings its foam; +He grinds thee as a mill would grind fresh malt; +He fells thee as the axe does fell the oak; +He binds thee as the woodbine binds the tree; +He darts upon thee as a hawk doth dart +Upon small birds, so that from this hour forth +Until the end of time, thou hast no claim +Or title to be called a valorous man: +Thou little puny phantom form," said Laegh. + Then with the rapid motion of the wind, +The fleetness of a swallow on the wing, +The fierceness of a dragon, and the strength +Of a roused lion, once again up sprang +Cuchullin, high into the troubled air, +And lighted for the third time on the boss +Of the broad shield, to strike Ferdiah's head +Over the rim. The warrior shook the shield, +And cast Cuchullin mid-way in the Ford, +With such an easy effort that it seemed +As if he scarcely deigned to shake him off. + + Then, as he lay, a strange distortion came +Upon Cuchullin; as a bladder swells +Inflated by the breath, to such a size +And fulness did he grow, that he became +A fearful, many-coloured, wondrous Tuaig-- +Gigantic shape, as big as a man of the sea, +Or monstrous Fomor, so that now his form +In perfect height over Ferdiah stood. + +So close the fight was now, that their heads met +Above, their feet below, their arms half-way +Over the rims and bosses of their shields:-- +So close the fight was now, that from their rims +Unto their centres were their shields cut through, +And loosed was every rivet from its hold; +So close the fight was now, that their strong spears +Were turned and bent and shivered point and haft; +Such was the closeness of the fight they made +That the invisible and unearthly hosts +Of Spirits, Bocanachs and Bananachs, +And the wild wizard people of the glen +And of the air the demons, shrieked and screamed +From their broad shields' reverberating rim, +From their sword-hilts and their long-shafted spears: +Such was the closeness of the fight they made, +They forced the river from its natural course, +Out of its bed, so that it might have been +A couch whereon a king or queen might lie, +For not a drop of water it retained, +Except what came from the great tramp and splash +Of the two heroes fighting in its midst. +Such was the fierceness of the fight they waged, +That a wild fury seized upon the steeds +The Gaels had gathered with them; in affright +They burst their traces and their binding ropes, +Nay even their chains, and panting fled away. +The women, too, and youths, by equal fears +Inspired and scared, and all the varied crowd +Of followers and non-combatants who there +Were with the men of Erin, from the camp +South-westward broke away, and fled the Ford. + + At the edge-feat of swords they were engaged +When this surprise occurred, and it was then +Ferdiah an unguarded moment found +Upon Cuchullin, and he struck him deep, +Plunging his straight-edged sword up to the hilt +Within his body, till his girdle filled +With blood, and all the Ford ran red with gore +From the brave battle-warrior's veins outshed. +This could Cuchullin now no longer bear +Because Ferdiah still the unguarded spot +Struck and re-struck with quick, strong, stubborn strokes; +And so he called aloud to Laegh, the son +Of Riangabra, for the dread Gaebulg. +The manner of that fearful feat was this: +Adown the current was it sent, and caught +Between the toes: a single spear would make +The wound it made when entering, but once lodged +Within the body, thirty barbs outsprung, +So that it could not be withdrawn until +The body was cut open where it lay. +And when of the Gaebulg Ferdiah heard +The name, he made a downward stroke of his shield, +To guard his body. Then Cuchullin thrust +The unerring thorny spear straight o'er the rim, +And through the breast-plate of his coat of mail, +So that its farther half was seen beyond +His body, after passing through his heart. + + Ferdiah gave an upward stroke of his shield, +His breast to cover, though it was "the relief +After the danger." Then the servant set +The dread Gaebulg adown the flowing stream; +Cuchullin caught it firmly 'twixt his toes, +And from his foot a fearful cast he threw +Upon Ferdiah with unerring aim. +Swift through the well-wrought iron apron guard +It passed, and through the stone which was as large +As a huge mill-stone, cracking it in three, +And so into his body, every part +Of which was filled with the expanding barbs +"That is enough: by that one blow I fall," +Ferdiah said. "Indeed, I now may own +That I am sickly after thee this day, +Though it behoved not thee that I should fall +By stroke of thine;" and then these dying words +He added, tottering back upon the bank: + +FERDIAH. + +O Hound, so famed for deeds of valour doing, + 'Twas not thy place my death to give to me; +Thine is the fault of my most certain ruin, + And yet 'tis best to have my blood on thee. + +The wretch escapes not from his false position, + Who to the gap of his destruction goes; +Alas! my death-sick voice needs no physician, + My end hath come--my life's stream seaward flows. + +The natural ramparts of my breast are broken, + In its own gore my struggling heart is drowned:-- +Alas! I have not fought as I have spoken, + For thou hast killed me in the fight, O Hound! + +Cuchullin towards him ran, and his two arms +Clasping about him, lifted him and bore +The body in its armour and its clothes +Across the Ford unto the northern bank, +In order that the slain should thus be placed +Upon the north bank of the Ford, and not +Among the men of Erin, on the west. +Cuchullin laid Ferdiah down, and then +A sudden trance, a faintness on him came +When bending o'er the body of his friend. +Laegh saw the weakness, which was seen as well +By all the men of Erin, who arose +Upon the moment to attack him there. +"Good, O Cuchullin," Laegh exclaimed, "arise, +For all the men of Erin hither come. +It is no single combat they will give, +Since fair Ferdiah, Daman's son, the son +Of Dare, by thy hands has here been slain." +"O servant, what availeth me to rise," +Cuchullin said, "since he hath fallen by me?" +And so the servant said, and so replied +Cuchullin, in his turn, unto the end; + +LAEGH. + +Arise, Emania's slaughter-hound, arise, + Exultant pride should be thy mood this day:-- +Ferdiah of the hosts before thee lies-- + Hard was the fight and dreadful was the fray. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Ah, what availeth me a hero's pride? + Madness and grief are in my heart and brain, +For the dear blood with which my hand is dyed-- + For the dear body that I here have slain. + +LAEGH. + +It suits thee ill to shed these idle tears, + Fitter by far for thee a fiercer mood-- +At thee he flung the flying pointed spears, + Malicious, wounding, dripping, dyed with blood. + +CUCHULLIN. + +Even though he left me crippled, maimed, and lame, + Even though I lost this arm that now but bleeds, +All would I bear, but now the fields of fame + No more shall see Ferdiah mount his steeds. + +LAEGH. + +More pleasing is the victory thou hast gained, + More pleasing to the women of Creeve Rue, +He to have died and thou to have remained, + To them the brave who fell here are too few. + +From that black day in brilliant Mave's long reign + Thou camest out of Cuailgne it has been-- +Her people slaughtered and her champions slain-- + A time of desolation to the queen. + +When thy great plundered flock was borne away, + Thou didst not lie with slumber-seal`ed eyes,-- +Then 'twas thy boast to rise before the day:-- + Arise again, Emania's Hound, arise! + +So Laegh addressed the hero, though he seemed +To hear him not, but mourned his friend the more. +And thus he spoke these words, and thus he moaned: + + "Alas! Ferdiah, an unhappy chance +It was for thee that thou didst not consult +Some of the heroes who my prowess knew, +Before thou camest forth to meet me here, +In the hard battle combat by the Ford. +Unhappy was it that it was not Laegh, +The son of Riangabra, thou didst ask +About our fellow-pupilship--a bond +That might the unnatural combat so have stayed; +Unhappy was it that thou didst not ask +Honest advice from Fergus, son of Roy; +Or that it was not battle-winning, proud, +Exulting, ruddy Connall thou didst ask +About our fellow-pupilship of old. +For well do these men know there will not be +A being born among the Conacians who +Shall do the deeds of valour thou hast done +From this day forth until the end of time. +For if thou hadst consulted these brave men +About the places where the assemblies meet, +About the plightings and the broken vows +Uttered too oft by Connaught's fair-haired dames; +If thou hadst asked about the games and sports +Played with the targe and shield, the sword and spear, +If of backgammon or the moves of chess, +Or races with the chariots and the steeds, +They never would have found a champion's arm +As strong to pierce a hero's flesh as thine, +O rose-cloud hued Ferdiah! None to raise +The red-mouthed vulture's hoarse, inviting croak +Unto the many-coloured flocks, nor one +Who will for Croghan combat like to thee, +O red-cheeked son of Daman!" Thus he said, +Then standing o'er Ferdiah he resumed: +"Oh! great has been the treachery and fraud +The men of Erin practised upon thee, +Ferdiah, thus to bring thee here to fight +With me, 'gainst whom it is no easy task +Upon the Tain Bo Cuailgne to contend." +And thus he said, and thus again he spake: + +CUCHULLIN. + +O my Ferdiah, O my friend, forgive: + 'Tis not my hand but treachery lays thee low:-- +Thou doomed to die and I condemned to live, + Both doomed for ever to be severed so! + +When we were far away in our young prime, + With Scatha, dread Buannan's chosen friend, +A vow we made, that till the end of time, + With hostile arms we never should contend. + +Dear was thy lovely ruddiness to me, + Dear was thy gray-blue eye, so bright and clear,-- +Thy comely, perfect form how sweet to see! + Thy wisdom and thy eloquence how dear! + +In body-cutting combat, on the field + Of spears, when all is lost or all is won, +None braver ever yet held up a shield, + Than thou, Ferdiah, Daman's ruddy son. + +Never since Aife's only son I slew, + Not knowing who the gallant youth might be,-- +Ah! hapless deed, that still my heart doth rue!-- + None have I found, Ferdiah, like to thee. + +Thy dream it was to win fair Finavair, + From Mave her beauteous daughter's hand to gain; +As soon might'st thou in the wide fields of air + The glancing sunbeam's swift-winged flight restrain. + +He paused awhile, still gazing on the dead, +Then to his charioteer he spoke: "Friend Laegh, +Strip now Ferdiah, take his armour off, +That I may see the golden brooch of Mave, +For which he undertook the fatal fight." +Laegh took the armour then from off his breast, +And then Cuchullin saw the golden pin +That cost so dear, and then these words he spake: + +CUCHULLIN. + +Alas! O brooch of gold! + O chief, whose fame each poet knows, + O hero of stout slaughtering blows, +Thy arm was brave and bold. + +Thy yellow flowing hair, + Thy purple girdle's silken fold + Still even in death around thee rolled,-- +Thy twisted jewel rare. + +Thy noble beaming eyes, + Now closed in death, make mine grow dim, + Thy dazzling shield with golden rim, +Thy chess a king might prize. + +Oh! piteous to behold, + My fellow-pupil falls by me: + It was an end that should not be, +Alas! O brooch of gold! + +After another pause Cuchullin spoke:-- +"O Laegh, my friend, open Ferdiah now, +And from his body the Gaebulg take out, +For I without my weapon cannot be." + +Laegh then approached, and with a strong, sharp knife +Opened Ferdiah's body, and drew out +The dread Gaebulg. And when Cuchullin saw +His bloody weapon lying red beside +Ferdiah on the ground, again he thought +Of all their past career, and thus he said: + +CUCHULLIN. + +Sad is my fate that I should see thee lying, + Sad is the fate, Ferdiah, I deplore,-- +I with my weapon which thy blood is dyeing, + Thou on the ground a mass of streaming gore. + +When we were young, where Scatha's eye hath seen us + Fond fellow-pupils in her schools of Skye, +Never was heard the angry word between us, + Never was seen the angry spear to fly. + +Scatha, with words of eloquent persuading, + Roused us in many a glorious feat to join; +"Go," she exclaimed, "each other bravely aiding, + Go forth to battle with the dread Germoin." + +I to Ferdiah said: "Oh, come, my brother," + I to the ever-generous Luaigh said, +I to fair Baetan's son, and many another: + "Come, let us go and fight this foe so dread." + +Crossing the sea in ships of peaceful traders, + All of us came to lone Lind Formairt's lake, +With us we brought four hundred brave invaders + Out of the islands of the Athisech. + +I and Ferdiah were the first to enter, + Where he himself, the dread Germoin, held rule, +Rind, Nial's son, I clove from head to centre, + Ruad I killed, the son of Finniule. + +First on the shore, as swift our fleet ships flew there, + Blath, son of Calba of red swords, was slain; +Struck by Ferdiah, Luaigh also slew there + Fierce rude Mugarne of the Torrian main. + +Bravely we battled against that court enchanted, + Full four times fifty heroes fell by me: +He, by their savage onslaught nothing daunted, + Slew ox-like monsters clambering from the sea. + +Wily Germoin, amid so many slaughters, + We took alive as trophy of the field, +Him o'er the broad, bright sea of spangled waters + We bore to Scatha of the bright broad shield. + +She, our famed tutoress, with kind endeavour, + Bound us from that day forth with heart and hand, +When met fair Elgga's tribes, that we should never + In hostile ranks before each other stand. + +Oh, day of woe! oh, day without a morrow! + Oh, fatal Tuesday morning, when the bud +Of his young life was scattered! Oh! the sorrow, + To give the friend I loved a drink of blood! + +Ah, if I saw thee among heroes lying + Dead on some glorious battlefield of Greece, +Soon would I follow thee, and proudly dying, + Sleep with my friend triumphant and at peace. + +We, Scatha's pupils, ah, how sad the story! + Thou to be dead and I to be alive: +I to be wounded here, all gashed and gory, + Thou never more thy chariot's steeds to drive. + +We, Scatha's pupils, ah! how sad the story; + Sad is the fate to which we both are led: +I to be wounded here, all gashed and gory, + And thou, alas! my friend, to lie here dead. + +We, Scatha's pupils, ah, how sad the story! + Sad is the deed and sorrowful the wrong: +Thou to be dead without thy meed of glory, + And I, oh! shame, to be alive and strong! + +Laegh interposed at length, and thus he said: +"Good, O Cuchullin, let us leave the Ford, +For long have we been here, by far too long." +"Let us then leave it now," Cuchullin said, +"O Laegh, my friend, but know that every fight +In which I hitherto have drawn my sword, +Has been but as a pastime and a sport +Compared with this one with Ferdiah fought." +And he was saying, and he spake these words: + +CUCHULLIN. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +Alike the teaching we received, +Alike were glad, alike were grieved, +Alike were we by Scatha's grace +Deemed worthy of the highest place. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +Alike our habits and our ways, +Alike our prowess and our praise, +Alike the trophies of the brave, +The glittering shields that Scatha gave. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +How dear to me, ah! who can know? +This golden pillar here laid low, +This mighty tree so strong and tall, +The chief, the champion of us all! + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +The lion rushing with a roar, +The wave that swallows up the shore, +When storm-winds blow and heaven is dim, +Could only be compared to him. + +Until Ferdiah sought the Ford, +I played but with the spear and sword: +Through me the friend I loved is dead, +A cloud is ever on my head-- +The mountain form, the giant frame, +Is now a shadow and a name. + +The countless legions of the 'Tain,' +Those hands of mine have turned and slain: +Their men and steeds before me died, +Their flocks and herds on either side, +Though numerous were the hosts that came +From Croghan's Rath of fatal fame. + +Though less than half the foes I led, +Before me soon my foes lay dead: +Never to gory battle pressed, +Never was nursed on Bamba's breast, +Never from sons of kings there came +A hero of more glorious fame.[52] + + +28. This poem is now published for the first time in its complete +state. + +29. Autumn; strictly the last night in October. (See O'Curry's "Sick +Bed of Cuchullin," "Atlantis," i., p. 370). + +30. Culann was the name of Conor MacNessa's smith, and it was from him +that Setanta derived the name of Cu-Chulainn, or Culann's Hound. + +31. Iorrus Domnann, now Erris, in the county of Mayo. It derived its +name ("Bay of the Domnanns," or "Deep-diggers,") from the party of the +Firbolgs, so called, having settled there, under their chiefs Genann and +Rudhraighe. (See "The Fate of the Children of Lir," by O'Curry, +Atlantis, iv., p. 123; Dr. Reeve's "Adamnan's Life of St. Columba," note +6, p. 31; O'Flaherty's "Ogygia," p. 280; and Hardiman's "West +Connaught," by O'Flaherty, published by the Irish Archaeological +Society.) + +32. The name of Scatha, the Amazonian instructress of Ferdiah and +Cuchullin, is still preserved in Dun Sciath, in the island of Skye, +where great Cuchullin's name and glory yet linger. The Cuchullin +Mountains, named after him, "those thunder-smitten, jagged, Cuchullin +peaks of Skye," the grandest mountain range in Great Britain, attract to +that remote island of the Hebrides many worshippers of the sublime and +beautiful in nature, whose enjoyments would be largely enhanced if they +knew the heroic legends which are connected with the glorious scenes +they have travelled so far to witness. Cuchullin is one of the foremost +characters in MacPherson's "Ossian," but the quasi-translator of Gaelic +poems places him more than two centuries later than the period at which +he really lived. (Lady Ferguson's "The Irish before the Conquest," pp. +57, 58.) + +33. For a description of this mysterious instrument, see Dr. Todd's +"Additional Notes to the Irish version of Nennius," p. 12. + +34. On the use of mail armour by the ancient Irish, see Dr. O'Donovan's +"Introduction and Notes to the Battle of Magh-Rath," edited for the +Archaeological Society. + +35. For an interesting account of this sovereign, so famous in Irish +story, see O'Curry's "Lectures," pp. 33, 34. Her Father, according to +the chronology of the "Four Masters," is supposed to have reigned as +monarch of Erin about a century before the Christian era. "Of all the +children of the monarch Eochaidh Fiedloch," says O'Donovan (cited in +O'Mahony's translation of Keating's "History," p. 276) "by far the most +celebrated was Meadbh or Mab, who is still remembered as the fairy queen +of the Irish, the 'Queen Mab' of Spenser." + +36. "The belief that a 'ferb' or ulcer could be produced," says Mr. +Stokes, in his preface to 'Cormac's Glossary,' "forms the groundwork of +the tale of Nede mac Adnae and his uncle, Caier." The names of the +three blisters (Stain, Blemish, and Defect) are almost identical with +those Ferdiah is threatened with in the present poem. + +37. A 'cumal' was three cows, or their value. On the use of chariots, +see "The Sick Bed of Cuchullin," Atlantis, i., p. 375. + +38. "The plains of Aie" (son of Allghuba the Druid), in Roscommon. +Here stood the palace of Cruachain (O'Curry's "Lectures," p. 35; "Battle +of Magh Leana," p. 61). + +39. "Fair-brow" (O'Curry, "Exile of the Children of Uisnech," Atlantis, +ii., p. 386). + +40. Here in the original there is a sudden change from prose to verse. +"It is generally supposed that these stories were recited by the ancient +Irish poets for the amusement of their chieftains at their public +feasts, and that the portions given in metre were sung" ("Battle of Magh +Rath," p. 12). The prose portions of this tale are represented in the +translation by blank verse, and the lyrical portions by rhymed verse. + +41. "Ugaine Mor exacted oaths by the sun and moon, the sea, the dew, +and colours . . . that the sovereignty of Erin should be invested in his +descendants for ever" (Ib. p. 3). + +42. The high dignity of Domnal may be inferred from the following +lines, quoted from MacLenini, in the preface to "Cormac's Glossary," +p. 51:-- + "As blackbirds to swans, as an ounce to a mass of gold, + As the forms of peasant women to the forms of queens, + As a king to Domnal . . . + As a taper to a candle, so is a sword to my sword." + +43. She was the wife of Ned, the war-god. See O'Donovan's "Annals of +the Four Masters," vol. i., p. 24. + +44. Etan is said to have been 'muime na filed,' nurse of the poets +("Three Irish Glossaries," preface, p. 33). + +45. At Rathcroghan was the palace of the Kings of Connacht. + +46. A name of Ireland ("Battle of Magh Leana," p. 79). + +47. So the night before the battle of Magh Rath, "the monarch, grandson +of Ainmire, slept not, in consequence of the weight of the battle and +the anxiety of the conflict pressing on his mind; for he was certain +that his own beloved foster-son would, on the morrow, meet his last +fate." + +48. In the "Battle of Magh Leana" these mysterious beings are called +"the Women of the Valley" (p. 120). + +49. For this line and for many valuable suggestions throughout the poem +I am indebted to the deep poetical insight and correct judgment of my +friend, Aubrey de Vere. + +50. "Derg Dian Scothach saw this order, and he put his forefinger into +the string of the spear." "Fate of the Children of Tuireann," by +O'Curry, Atlantis, iv., p. 233. See also "Battle of Magh Rath," pp. +140, 141, 152. + +51. Bregia was the ancient name of the plain watered by the Boyne. + +52. According to the marginal note of the learned editor, the last four +lines appear to be a sort of epilogue, in which the poet extols the +victor. + + + +THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN. +A.D. 545. + +[We are informed that Brendan, hearing of the previous voyage of his +cousin, Barinthus, in the western ocean, and obtaining an account from +him of the happy isles he had landed on in the far west, determined, +under the strong desire of winning heathen souls to Christ, to undertake +a voyage of discovery himself. And aware that all along the western +coast of Ireland there were many traditions respecting the existence of +a western land, he proceeded to the islands of Arran, and there remained +for some time, holding communication with the venerable St. Enda, and +obtaining from him much information relating to his voyage. Having +prosecuted his inquiries with diligence, Brendan returned to his native +Kerry; and from a bay sheltered by the lofty mountain that is now known +by his name, he set sail for the Atlantic land; and, directing his +course towards the south-west, in order to meet the summer solstice, or +what we should call the tropic, after a long and rough voyage, his +little bark being well provisioned, he came to summer seas, where he was +carried along, without the aid of sail or oar, for many a long day. +This, which it is to be presumed was the great gulf-stream, brought his +vessel to shore somewhere about the Virginian capes, or where the +American coast tends eastward, and forms the New England States. Here +landing, he and his companions marched steadily into the interior for +fifteen days, and then came to a large river, flowing from east to west: +this, evidently, was the river Ohio. And this the holy adventurer was +about to cross, when he was accosted by a person of noble presence--but +whether a real or visionary man does not appear--who told him he had +gone far enough; that further discoveries were reserved for other men, +who would, in due time, come and Christianise all that pleasant land. +It is said he remained seven years away, and returned to set up a +college of three thousand monks, at Clonfert.--"Caesar Otway's Sketches +in Erris and Tyrawley," note, pp. 98, 99.] + + +THE VOCATION. + +[When St. Brendan was an infant, says Colgan, he was placed under the +care of St. Ita, and remained with her five years, after which period he +was led away by Bishop Ercus in order to receive from him the more solid +instruction necessary for his advancing years. Brendan always retained +the greatest respect and affection for his foster-mother, and he is +represented, after his seven years' voyage, amusing St. Ita with an +account of his adventures in the ocean.] + +O Ita, mother of my heart and mind-- + My nourisher, my fosterer, my friend, +Who taught me first to God's great will resigned, + Before his shining altar-steps to bend; +Who poured his word upon my soul like balm, + And on mine eyes what pious fancy paints-- +And on mine ear the sweetly swelling psalm, + And all the sacred knowledge of the saints; + +To whom but thee, dear mother, should be told + Of all the wonders I have seen afar?-- +Islands more green and suns of brighter gold + Than this dear land or yonder blazing star; +Of hills that bear the fruit-trees on their tops, + And seas that dimple with eternal smiles; +Of airs from heaven that fan the golden crops, + O'er the great ocean 'mid the blessed isles! + +Thou knowest, O my mother! how to thee + The blessed Ercus led me when a boy, +And how within thine arms and at thine knee, + I learned the lore that death cannot destroy; +And how I parted hence with bitter tears, + And felt, when turning from thy friendly door, +In the reality of ripening years, + My paradise of childhood was no more. + +I wept--but not with sin such tear-drops flow;-- + I sighed--for earthly things with heaven entwine; +Tears make the harvest of the heart to grow, + And love though human is almost divine. +The heart that loves not knows not how to pray; + The eye can never smile that never weeps: +'Tis through our sighs hope's kindling sunbeams play + And through our tears the bow of promise peeps. + +I grew to manhood by the western wave, + Among the mighty mountains on the shore: +My bed the rock within some natural cave, + My food whate'er the seas or seasons bore: +My occupation, morn and noon and night: + The only dream my hasty slumbers gave, +Was Time's unheeding, unreturning flight, + And the great world that lies beyond the grave. + +And thus, where'er I went, all things to me + Assumed the one deep colour of my mind; +Great nature's prayer rose from the murmuring sea, + And sinful man sighed in the wintry wind. +The thick-veiled clouds by shedding many a tear, + Like penitents, grew purified and bright, +And, bravely struggling through earth's atmosphere, + Passed to the regions of eternal light. + +I loved to watch the clouds now dark and dun, + In long procession and funeral line, +Pass with slow pace across the glorious sun, + Like hooded monks before a dazzling shrine. +And now with gentler beauty as they rolled + Along the azure vault in gladsome May, +Gleaming pure white, and edged with broidered gold, + Like snowy vestments on the Virgin's day. + +And then I saw the mighty sea expand + Like Time's unmeasured and unfathomed waves, +One with its tide-marks on the ridgy sand, + The other with its line of weedy graves; +And as beyond the outstretched wave of time, + The eye of Faith a brighter land may meet, +So did I dream of some more sunny clime + Beyond the waste of waters at my feet. + +Some clime where man, unknowing and unknown, + For God's refreshing word still gasps and faints; +Or happier rather some Elysian zone, + Made for the habitation of his saints: +Where Nature's love the sweat of labour spares, + Nor turns to usury the wealth it lends, +Where the rich soil spontaneous harvest bears, + And the tall tree with milk-filled clusters bends. + +The thought grew stronger with my growing days, + Even like to manhood's strengthening mind and limb, +And often now amid the purple haze + That evening breathed upon the horizon's rim-- +Methought, as there I sought my wished-for home, + I could descry amid the waters green, +Full many a diamond shrine and golden dome, + And crystal palaces of dazzling sheen. + +And then I longed, with impotent desire, + Even for the bow whereby the Python bled, +That I might send on dart of the living fire + Into that land, before the vision fled, +And thus at length fix the enchanted shore, + Hy-Brasail, Eden of the western wave! +That thou again wouldst fade away no more, + Buried and lost within thy azure grave. + +But angels came and whispered as I dreamt, + "This is no phantom of a frenzied brain-- +God shows this land from time to time to tempt + Some daring mariner across the main: +By thee the mighty venture must be made, + By thee shall myriad souls to Christ be won! +Arise, depart, and trust to God for aid!" + I woke, and kneeling, cried, "His will be done!" + + +ARA OF THE SAINTS.[53] + +Hearing how blessed Enda lived apart, + Amid the sacred caves of Ara-mhor, +And how beneath his eye, spread like a chart, + Lay all the isles of that remotest shore; +And how he had collected in his mind + All that was known to man of the Old Sea,[54] +I left the Hill of Miracles[55] behind, + And sailed from out the shallow, sandy Leigh. + +Betwixt the Samphire Isles swam my light skiff, + And like an arrow flew through Fenor Sound, +Swept by the pleasant strand, and the tall cliff, + Whereon the pale rose amethysts are found. +Rounded Moyferta's rocky point, and crossed + The mouth of stream-streaked Erin's mightiest tide, +Whose troubled waves break o'er the City lost, + Chafed by the marble turrets that they hide. + +Beneath Ibrickan's hills, moory and tame, + And Inniscaorach's caves, so wild and dark, +I sailed along. The white-faced otter came, + And gazed in wonder on my floating bark. +The soaring gannet, perched upon my mast, + And the proud bird, that flies but o'er the sea, +Wheeled o'er my head: and the girrinna passed + Upon the branch of some life-giving tree.[56] + +Leaving the awful cliffs of Corcomroe, + I sought the rocky eastern isle, that bears +The name of blessed Coemhan, who doth show + Pity unto the storm-tossed seaman's prayers; +Then crossing Bealach-na-fearbach's treacherous sound, + I reached the middle isle, whose citadel +Looks like a monarch from its throne around; + And there I rested by St. Kennerg's well. + +Again I sailed, and crossed the stormy sound + That lies beneath Binn-Aite's rocky height-- +And there, upon the shore, the Saint I found + Waiting my coming though the tardy night. +He led me to his home beside the wave, + Where, with his monks, the pious father dwelled, +And to my listening ear he freely gave + The sacred knowledge that his bosom held. + +When I proclaimed the project that I nursed, + How 'twas for this that I his blessing sought, +An irrepressible cry of joy outburst + From his pure lips, that blessed me for the thought. +He said that he, too, had in visions strayed + Over the untracked ocean's billowy foam; +Bid me have hope, that God would give me aid, + And bring me safe back to my native home. + +Oft, as we paced that marble-covered land, + Would blessed Enda tell me wondrous tales-- +How, for the children of his love, the hand + Of the Omnipotent Father never fails-- +How his own sister,[57] standing by the side + Of the great sea, which bore no human bark, +Spread her light cloak upon the conscious tide, + And sailed thereon securely as an ark. + +And how the winds become the willing slaves + Of those who labour in the work of God; +And how Scothinus walked upon the waves, + Which seemed to him the meadow's verdant sod. +How he himself came hither with his flock, + To teach the infidels from Corcomroe, +Upon the floating breast of the hard rock, + Which lay upon the glistening sands below. + +But not alone of miracles and joys + Would Enda speak--he told me of his dream; +When blessed Kieran went to Clonmacnois, + To found the sacred churches by the stream-- +How he did weep to see the angels flee + Away from Arran as a place accursed; +And men tear up the island-shading tree, + Out of the soil from which it sprung at first. + +At length I tore me from the good man's sight, + And o'er Loch Lurgan's mouth[58] took my lone way, +Which, in the sunny morning's golden light, + Shone like the burning lake of Lassarae; +Now 'neath heaven's frown--and now, beneath its smile-- + Borne on the tide, or driven before the gale; +And, as I passed MacDara's sacred Isle, + Thrice bowed my mast, and thrice let down my sail. + +Westward of Arran as I sailed away; + I saw the fairest sight eye can behold-- +Rocks which, illumined by the morning's ray, + Seemed like a glorious city built of gold. +Men moved along each sunny shining street, + Fires seemed to blaze, and curling smoke to rise, +When lo! the city vanished, and a fleet, + With snowy sails, rose on my ravished eyes. + +Thus having sought for knowledge and for strength, + For the unheard-of voyage that I planned, +I left these myriad isles, and turned at length + Southward my bark, and sought my native land. +There made I all things ready, day by day, + The wicker-boat, with ox-skins covered o'er-- +Chose the good monks companions of my way, + And waited for the wind to leave the shore. + + +THE VOYAGE. + +At length the long-expected morning came, + When from the opening arms of that wild bay, +Beneath the hill that bears my humble name, + Over the waves we took our untracked way; +Sweetly the morning lay on tarn and rill, + Gladly the waves played in its golden light, +And the proud top of the majestic hill + Shone in the azure air, serene and bright. + +Over the sea we flew that sunny morn, + Not without natural tears and human sighs: +For who can leave the land where he was born, + And where, perchance, a buried mother lies; +Where all the friends of riper manhood dwell, + And where the playmates of his childhood sleep: +Who can depart, and breathe a cold farewell, + Nor let his eyes their honest tribute weep? + +Our little bark, kissing the dimpled smiles + On ocean's cheek, flew like a wanton bird, +And then the land, with all its hundred isles, + Faded away, and yet we spoke no word. +Each silent tongue held converse with the past, + Each moistened eye looked round the circling wave, +And, save the spot where stood our trembling mast, + Saw all things hid within one mighty grave. + +We were alone, on the wide watery waste-- + Nought broke its bright monotony of blue, +Save where the breeze the flying billows chased, + Or where the clouds their purple shadows threw. +We were alone--the pilgrims of the sea-- + One boundless azure desert round us spread; +No hope, no trust, no strength, except in THEE, + Father, who once the pilgrim-people led. + +And when the bright-faced sun resigned his throne + Unto the Ethiop queen, who rules the night, +Who with her pearly crown and starry zone, + Fills the dark dome of heaven with silvery light;-- +As on we sailed, beneath her milder sway, + And felt within our hearts her holier power, +We ceased from toil, and humbly knelt to pray, + And hailed with vesper hymns the tranquil hour! + +For then, indeed, the vaulted heavens appeared + A fitting shrine to hear their Maker's praise, +Such as no human architect has reared, + Where gems, and gold, and precious marbles blaze. +What earthly temple such a roof can boast?-- + What flickering lamp with the rich starlight vies, +When the round moon rests, like the sacred Host, + Upon the azure altar of the skies? + +We breathed aloud the Christian's filial prayer, + Which makes us brothers even with the Lord; +Our Father, cried we, in the midnight air, + In heaven and earth be thy great name adored; +May thy bright kingdom, where the angels are, + Replace this fleeting world, so dark and dim. +And then, with eyes fixed on some glorious star, + We sang the Virgin-Mother's vesper hymn! + +Hail, brightest star! that o'er life's troubled sea + Shines pitying down from heaven's elysian blue! +Mother and Maid, we fondly look to thee, + Fair gate of bliss, where heaven beams brightly through. +Star of the morning! guide our youthful days, + Shine on our infant steps in life's long race, +Star of the evening! with thy tranquil rays, + Gladden the aged eyes that seek thy face. + +Hail, sacred Maid! thou brighter, better Eve, + Take from our eyes the blinding scales of sin; +Within our hearts no selfish poison leave, + For thou the heavenly antidote canst win. +O sacred Mother! 'tis to thee we run-- + Poor children, from this world's oppressive strife; +Ask all we need from thy immortal Son, + Who drank of death, that we might taste of life. + +Hail, spotless Virgin! mildest, meekest maid-- + Hail! purest Pearl that time's great sea hath borne-- +May our white souls, in purity arrayed, + Shine, as if they thy vestal robes had worn; +Make our hearts pure, as thou thyself art pure, + Make safe the rugged pathway of our lives, +And make us pass to joys that will endure + When the dark term of mortal life arrives.[59] + +'Twas thus, in hymns, and prayers, and holy psalms, + Day tracking day, and night succeeding night, +Now driven by tempests, now delayed by calms, + Along the sea we winged our varied flight. +Oh! how we longed and pined for sight of land! + Oh! how we sighed for the green pleasant fields! +Compared with the cold waves, the barest strand-- + The bleakest rock--a crop of comfort yields. + +Sometimes, indeed, when the exhausted gale, + In search of rest, beneath the waves would flee, +Like some poor wretch who, when his strength doth fail, + Sinks in the smooth and unsupporting sea: +Then would the Brothers draw from memory's store + Some chapter of life's misery or bliss, +Some trial that some saintly spirit bore, + Or else some tale of passion, such as this: + + +THE BURIED CITY. + +[The peasants who live near the mouth of the Shannon point to a part of +the river within the headlands over which the tides rush with +extraordinary rapidity and violence. They say it is the site of a lost +city, long buried beneath the waves.--See Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii. p. +436.] + +Beside that giant stream that foams and swells + Betwixt Hy-Conaill and Moyarta's shore, +And guards the isle where good Senanus dwells, + A gentle maiden dwelt in days of yore. +She long has passed out of Time's aching womb, + And breathes Eternity's favonian air; +Yet fond Tradition lingers o'er her tomb, + And paints her glorious features as they were:-- + +Her smile was Eden's pure and stainless light, + Which never cloud nor earthly vapour mars; +Her lustrous eyes were like the noon of night-- + Black, but yet brightened by a thousand stars; +Her tender form, moulded in modest grace, + Shrank from the gazer's eye, and moved apart; +Heaven shone reflected in her angel face, + And God reposed within her virgin heart. + +She dwelt in green Moyarta's pleasant land, + Beneath the graceful hills of Clonderlaw,-- +Sweet sunny hills, whose triple summits stand, + One vast tiara over stream and shaw. +Almost in solitude the maiden grew, + And reached her early budding woman's prime; +And all so noiselessly the swift time flew, + She knew not of the name or flight of Time. + +And thus, within her modest mountain nest, + This gentle maiden nestled like a dove, +Offering to God from her pure innocent breast + The sweet and silent incense of her love. +No selfish feeling nor presumptuous pride + In her calm bosom waged unnatural strife; +Saint of her home and hearth, she sanctified + The thousand trivial common cares of life. + +Upon the opposite shore there dwelt a youth, + Whose nature's woof was woven of good and ill-- +Whose stream of life flowed to the sea of truth, + But in a devious course, round many a hill-- +Now lingering through a valley of delight, + Where sweet flowers bloomed, and summer songbirds sung, +Now hurled along the dark, tempestuous night, + With gloomy, treeless mountains overhung. + +He sought the soul of Beauty throughout space, + Knowledge he tracked through many a vanished age: +For one he scanned fair Nature's radiant face, + And for the other, Learning's shrivelled page. +If Beauty sent some fair apostle down, + Or Knowledge some great teacher of her lore, +Bearing the wreath of rapture and the crown, + He knelt to love, to learn, and to adore. + +Full many a time he spread his little sail, + How rough the river, or how dark the skies, +Gave his light corrach to the angry gale, + And crossed the stream to gaze on Ethna's eyes. +As yet 'twas worship, more than human love, + That hopeless adoration that we pay +Unto some glorious planet throned above, + Through severed from its crystal sphere for aye. + +But warmer love an easy conquest won, + The more he came to green Moyarta's bowers; +Even as the earth, by gazing on the sun, + In summer-time puts forth her myriad flowers. +The yearnings of his heart--vague, undefined-- + Wakened and solaced by ideal gleams, +Took everlasting shape, and intertwined + Around this incarnation of his dreams. + +Some strange fatality restrained his tongue-- + He spoke not of the love that filled his breast; +The thread of hope, on which his whole life hung, + Was far too weak to bear so strong a test. +He trusted to the future--time, or chance-- + His constant homage and assiduous care; +Preferred to dream, and lengthen out his trance, + Rather than wake to knowledge and despair. + +And thus she knew not, when the youth would look + Upon some pictured chronicle of eld, +In every blazoned letter of the book + One fairest face was all that he beheld: +And where the limner, with consummate art, + Drew flowing lines and quaint devices rare, +The wildered youth, by looking from the heart, + Saw nought but lustrous eyes and waving hair. + +He soon was startled from his dreams, for now-- + 'Twas said, obedient to a heavenly call-- +His life of life would take the vestal vow, + In one short month, within a convent's wall. +He heard the tidings with a sickening fear, + But quickly had the sudden faintness flown, +And vowed, though heaven or hell should interfere, + Ethna--his Ethna--should be his alone! + +He sought his boat, and snatched the feathery oar-- + It was the first and brightest morn of May: +The white-winged clouds, that sought the northern shore, + Seemed but Love's guides, to point him out the way. +The great old river heaved its mighty heart, + And, with a solemn sigh, went calmly on; +As if of all his griefs it felt a part, + But know they should be borne, and so had gone. + +Slowly his boat the languid breeze obeyed, + Although the stream that that light burden bore +Was like the level path the angels made, + Through the rough sea, to Arran's blessed shore; +And from the rosy clouds the light airs fanned, + And from the rich reflection that they gave, +Like good Scothinus, had he reached his hand, + He might have plucked a garland from the wave. + +And now the noon in purple splendour blazed, + The gorgeous clouds in slow procession filed; +The youth leaned o'er with listless eyes and gazed + Down through the waves on which the blue heavens smiled: +What sudden fear his gasping breath doth drown! + What hidden wonder fires his startled eyes! +Down in the deep, full many a fathom down, + A great and glorious city buried lies. + +Not like those villages with rude-built walls, + That raise their humble roofs round every coast, +But holding marble basilics and halls, + Such as imperial Rome herself might boast. +There was the palace and the poor man's home, + And upstart glitter and old-fashioned gloom, +The spacious porch, the nicely rounded dome, + The hero's column, and the martyr's tomb. + +There was the cromleach with its circling stones; + There the green rath and the round narrow tower; +There was the prison whence the captive's groans + Had many a time moaned in the midnight hour. +Beneath the graceful arch the river flowed, + Around the walls the sparkling waters ran, +The golden chariot rolled along the road-- + All, all was there except the face of man. + +The wondering youth had neither thought nor word, + He felt alone the power and will to die; +His little bark seemed like an outstretched bird, + Floating along that city's azure sky. +It joyed that youth the battle's storm to brave, + And yet he would have perished with affright, +Had not the breeze, rippling the lucid wave, + Concealed the buried city from his sight. + +He reached the shore; the rumour was too true-- + Ethna--his Ethna--would be God's alone +In one brief month; for which the maid withdrew, + To seek for strength before his blessed throne. +Was it the fire that on his bosom preyed, + Or the temptation of the Fiend abhorred, +That made him vow to snatch the white-veiled maid + Even from the very altar of her Lord? + +The first of June, that festival of flowers, + Came, like a goddess, o'er the meadows green! +And all the children of the spring-tide showers + Rose from their grassy beds to hail their Queen. +A song of joy, a paean of delight, + Rose from the myriad life in the tall grass, +When the young Dawn, fresh from the sleep of night, + Glanced at her blushing face in Ocean's glass. + +Ethna awoke--a second--brighter dawn-- + Her mother's fondling voice breathed in her ear; +Quick from her couch she started as a fawn + Bounds from the heather when her dam is near. +Each clasped the other in a long embrace-- + Each know the other's heart did beat and bleed-- +Each kissed the warm tears from the other's face, + And gave the consolation she did need. + +Oh! bitterest sacrifice the heart can make-- + That of a mother of her darling child-- +That of a child, who, for her Saviour's sake, + Leaves the fond face that o'er her cradle smiled. +They who may think that God doth never need + So great, so sad a sacrifice as this, +While they take glory in their easier creed, + Will feel and own the sacrifice it is. + +All is prepared--the sisters in the choir-- + The mitred abbot on his crimson throne-- +The waxen tapers, with their pallid fire + Poured o'er the sacred cup and altar-stone-- +The upturned eyes, glistening with pious tears-- + The censer's fragrant vapour floating o'er; +Now all is hushed, for, lo! the maid appears, + Entering with solemn step the sacred door. + +She moved as moves the moon, radiant and pale, + Through the calm night, wrapped in a silvery cloud; +The jewels of her dress shone through her veil, + As shine the stars through their thin vaporous shroud; +The brighter jewels of her eyes were hid + Beneath their smooth white caskets arching o'er, +Which, by the trembling of each ivory lid, + Seemed conscious of the treasures that they bore. + +She reached the narrow porch and the tall door, + Her trembling foot upon the sill was placed-- +Her snowy veil swept the smooth-sanded floor-- + Her cold hands chilled the bosom they embraced. +Who is this youth, whose forehead, like a book, + Bears many a deep-traced character of pain? +Who looks for pardon as the damned may look-- + That ever pray, and know they pray in vain. + +'Tis he, the wretched youth--the Demon's prey; + One sudden bound, and he is at her side-- +One piercing shriek, and she has swooned away, + Dim are her eyes, and cold her heart's warm tide. +Horror and terror seize the startled crowd; + The sinewy hands are nerveless with affright; +When, as the wind beareth a summer cloud, + The youth bears off the maiden from their sight. + +Close to the place the stream rushed roaring by, + His little boat lay moored beneath the bank, +Hid from the shore, and from the gazer's eye, + By waving reeds and water-willows dank. +Hither, with flying feet and glowing brow, + He fled, as quick as fancies in a dream-- +Placed the insensate maiden in the prow-- + Pushed from the shore, and gained the open stream. + +Scarce had he left the river's foamy edge, + When sudden darkness fell on hill and plain; +The angry sun, shocked at the sacrilege, + Fled from the heavens with all his golden train; +The stream rushed quicker, like a man afeared; + Down swept the storm and clove its breast of green, +And though the calm and brightness reappeared + The youth and maiden never more were seen. + +Whether the current in its strong arms bore + Their bark to green Hy-Brasail's fairy halls, +Or whether, as is told along that shore, + They sunk within the buried city's walls; +Whether through some Elysian clime they stray, + Or o'er their whitened bones the river rolls;-- +Whate'er their fate, my brothers, let us pray + To God for peace and pardon to their souls. + +Such was the brother's tale of earthly love-- + He ceased, and sadly bowed his reverend head: +For us, we wept, and raised our eyes above, + And sang the 'De Profundis' for the dead. +A freshening breeze played on our moistened cheeks, + The far horizon oped its walls of light, +And lo! with purple hills and sun-bright peaks + A glorious isle gleamed on our gladdened sight, + + +THE PARADISE OF BIRDS. + +"Post resurrectionis diem dominicae navigabitis ad altam insulam ad +occidentalem plagam, quae vocatur PARADISUS AVIUM."--"Life of St. +Brendan," in Capgrave, fol. 45. + +It was the fairest and the sweetest scene-- + The freshest, sunniest, smiling land that e'er +Held o'er the waves its arms of sheltering green + Unto the sea and storm-vexed mariner:-- +No barren waste its gentle bosom scarred, + Nor suns that burn, nor breezes winged with ice, +Nor jagged rocks (Nature's grey ruins) marred + The perfect features of that Paradise. + +The verdant turf spreads from the crystal marge + Of the clear stream, up the soft-swelling hill, +Rose-bearing shrubs and stately cedars large + All o'er the land the pleasant prospect fill. +Unnumbered birds their glorious colours fling + Among the boughs that rustle in the breeze, +As if the meadow-flowers had taken wing + And settled on the green o'er-arching trees. + +Oh! Ita, Ita, 'tis a grievous wrong, + That man commits who uninspired presumes +To sing the heavenly sweetness of their song-- + To paint the glorious tinting of their plumes-- +Plumes bright as jewels that from diadems + Fling over golden thrones their diamond rays-- +Bright, even as bright as those three mystic gems, + The angel bore thee in thy childhood's days.[60] + +There dwells the bird that to the farther west + Bears the sweet message of the coming spring;[61] +June's blushing roses paint his prophet breast, + And summer skies gleam from his azure wing. +While winter prowls around the neighbouring seas, + The happy bird dwells in his cedar nest, +Then flies away, and leaves his favourite trees + Unto this brother of the graceful crest.[62] + +Birds that with us are clothed in modest brown, + There wear a splendour words cannot express; +The sweet-voiced thrush beareth a golden crown,[63] + And even the sparrow boasts a scarlet dress.[64] +There partial nature fondles and illumes + The plainest offspring that her bosom bears; +The golden robin flies on fiery plumes,[65] + And the small wren a purple ruby wears.[66] + +Birds, too, that even in our sunniest hours, + Ne'er to this cloudy land one moment stray, +Whose brilliant plumes, fleeting and fair as flowers, + Come with the flowers, and with the flowers decay.[67] +The Indian bird, with hundred eyes, that throws + From his blue neck the azure of the skies, +And his pale brother of the northern snows, + Bearing white plumes, mirrored with brilliant eyes.[68] + +Oft in the sunny mornings have I seen + Bright-yellow birds, of a rich lemon hue, +Meeting in crowds upon the branches green, + And sweetly singing all the morning through.[69] +And others, with their heads greyish and dark, + Pressing their cinnamon cheeks to the old trees, +And striking on the hard, rough, shrivelled bark, + Like conscience on a bosom ill at ease.[70] + +And diamond birds chirping their single notes, + Now 'mid the trumpet-flower's deep blossoms seen, +Now floating brightly on with fiery throats, + Small-winged emeralds of golden green;[71] +And other larger birds with orange cheeks, + A many-colour-painted chattering crowd, +Prattling for ever with their curved beaks, + And through the silent woods screaming aloud.[72] + +Colour and form may be conveyed in words, + But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains +That from the throats of these celestial birds + Rang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains. +There was the meadow-lark, with voice as sweet, + But robed in richer raiment than our own; +And as the moon smiled on his green retreat, + The painted nightingale sang out alone.[73] + +Words cannot echo music's winged note, + One bird alone exhausts their utmost power; +'Tis that strange bird whose many-voic'ed throat + Mocks all his brethren of the woodland bower; +To whom indeed the gift of tongues is given, + The musical rich tongues that fill the grove, +Now like the lark dropping his notes from heaven, + Now cooing the soft earth-notes of the dove.[74] + +Oft have I seen him, scorning all control, + Winging his arrowy flight rapid and strong, +As if in search of his evanished soul, + Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song; +And as I wandered on, and upward gazed, + Half lost in admiration, half in fear, +I left the brothers wondering and amazed, + Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near. + +Was it a revelation or a dream?-- + That these bright birds as angels once did dwell +In heaven with starry Lucifer supreme, + Half sinned with him, and with him partly fell; +That in this lesser paradise they stray. + Float through its air, and glide its streams along, +And that the strains they sing each happy day + Rise up to God like morn and even song.[75] + + +THE PROMISED LAND. + +[The earlier stanzas of this description of Paradise are principally +founded upon the Anglo-Saxon version of the poem "De Phenice," ascribed +to Lactantius, and which is at least as old as the earlier part of the +eleventh century.] + +As on this world the young man turns his eyes, + When forced to try the dark sea of the grave, +Thus did we gaze upon that Paradise, + Fading, as we were borne across the wave. +And, as a brighter world dawns by degrees + Upon Eternity's serenest strand, +Thus, having passed through dark and gloomy seas, + At length we reached the long-sought Promised Land. + +The wind had died upon the Ocean's breast, + When, like a silvery vein through the dark ore, +A smooth bright current, gliding to the west, + Bore our light bark to that enchanted shore. +It was a lovely plain--spacious and fair, + And bless'd with all delights that earth can hold, +Celestial odours filled the fragrant air + That breathed around that green and pleasant wold. + +There may not rage of frost, nor snow, nor rain, + Injure the smallest and most delicate flower, +Nor fall of hail wound the fair, healthful plain, + Nor the warm weather, nor the winter's shower. +That noble land is all with blossoms flowered, + Shed by the summer breezes as they pass; +Less leaves than blossoms on the trees are showered, + And flowers grow thicker in the fields than grass. + +Nor hills, nor mountains, there stand high and steep, + Nor stony cliffs tower o'er the frightened waves, +Nor hollow dells, where stagnant waters sleep, + Nor hilly risings, nor dark mountain caves; +Nothing deformed upon its bosom lies, + Nor on its level breast rests aught unsmooth, +But the noble filed flourishes 'neath the skies, + Blooming for ever in perpetual youth. + +That glorious land stands higher o'er the sea, + By twelve-fold fathom measure, than we deem +The highest hills beneath the heavens to be. + There the bower glitters, and the green woods gleam. +All o'er that pleasant plain, calm and serene, + The fruits ne'er fall, but, hung by God's own hand, +Cling to the trees that stand for ever green, + Obedient to their Maker's first command. + +Summer and winter are the woods the same, + Hung with bright fruits and leaves that never fade; +Such will they be, beyond the reach of flame, + Till Heaven, and Earth, and Time, shall have decayed. +Here might Iduna in her fond pursuit, + As fabled by the northern sea-born men, +Gather her golden and immortal fruit, + That brings their youth back to the gods again. + +Of old, when God, to punish sinful pride, + Sent round the deluged world the ocean flood, +When all the earth lay 'neath the vengeful tide, + This glorious land above the waters stood. +Such shall it be at last, even as at first, + Until the coming of the final doom, +When the dark chambers--men's death homes shall burst, + And man shall rise to judgment from the tomb. + +There there is never enmity, nor rage, + Nor poisoned calumny, nor envy's breath, +Nor shivering poverty, nor decrepit age, + Nor loss of vigour, nor the narrow death; +Nor idiot laughter, nor the tears men weep, + Nor painful exile from one's native soil, +Nor sin, nor pain, nor weariness, nor sleep, + Nor lust of riches, nor the poor man's toil. + +There never falls the rain-cloud as with us, + Nor gapes the earth with the dry summer's thirst, +But liquid streams, wondrously curious, + Out of the ground with fresh fair bubbling burst. +Sea-cold and bright the pleasant waters glide + Over the soil, and through the shady bowers; +Flowers fling their coloured radiance o'er the tide, + And the bright streams their crystal o'er the flowers. + +Such was the land for man's enjoyment made, + When from this troubled life his soul doth wend: +Such was the land through which entranced we strayed, + For fifteen days, nor reached its bound nor end. +Onward we wandered in a blissful dream, + Nor thought of food, nor needed earthly rest; +Until, at length, we reached a mighty stream, + Whose broad bright waves flowed from the east to west. + +We were about to cross its placid tide, + When, lo! an angel on our vision broke, +Clothed in white, upon the further side + He stood majestic, and thus sweetly spoke: +"Father, return, thy mission now is o'er; + God, who did call thee here, now bids thee go, +Return in peace unto thy native shore, + And tell the mighty secrets thou dost know. + +"In after years, in God's own fitting time, + This pleasant land again shall re-appear; +And other men shall preach the truths sublime, + To the benighted people dwelling here. +But ere that hour this land shall all be made, + For mortal man, a fitting, natural home, +Then shall the giant mountain fling its shade, + And the strong rock stem the white torrent's foam. + +"Seek thy own isle--Christ's newly-bought domain, + Which Nature with an emerald pencil paints: +Such as it is, long, long shall it remain, + The school of Truth, the College of the Saints, +The student's bower, the hermit's calm retreat, + The stranger's home, the hospitable hearth, +The shrine to which shall wander pilgrim feet + From all the neighbouring nations of the earth. + +"But in the end upon that land shall fall + A bitter scourge, a lasting flood of tears, +When ruthless tyranny shall level all + The pious trophies of its early years: +Then shall this land prove thy poor country's friend, + And shine a second Eden in the west; +Then shall this shore its friendly arms extend, + And clasp the outcast exile to its breast." + +He ceased and vanished from our dazzled sight, + While harps and sacred hymns rang sweetly o'er +For us again we winged our homeward flight + O'er the great ocean to our native shore; +And as a proof of God's protecting hand, + And of the wondrous tidings that we bear, +The fragrant perfume of that heavenly land + Clings to the very garments that we wear.[76] + + +53. So called from the number of holy men and women formerly inhabiting +it. + +54. The Atlantic was so named by the ancient Irish. + +55. Ardfert. + +56. The puffin (Anas leucopsis), called in Irish 'girrinna.' It was +the popular belief that these birds grew out of driftwood. + +57. St. Fanchea. + +58. Galway Bay. + +59. These stanzas are a paraphrase of the hymn "Ave Maris Stella." + +60. An angel was said to have presented her with three precious stones, +which, he explained, were emblematic of the Blessed Trinity, by whom she +would be always visited and protected. + +61. The blue bird. + +62. The cedar bird. + +63. The golden-crowned thrush. + +64. The scarlet sparrow or tanager. + +65. The Baltimore oriole or fire-bird. + +66. The ruby-crowned wren. + +67. Peacocks. + +68. The white peacock. + +69. The yellow bird or goldfinch. + +70. The gold-winged woodpecker. + +71. Humming birds. + +72. The Carolina parrot. + +73. The grosbeak or red bird, sometimes called the Virginia +nightingale. + +74. The mocking-bird. + +75. See the "Lyfe of Saynt Brandon" in the Golden Legend, published by +Wynkyn de Worde, 1483; fol. 357. + +76. "Nonne cognoscitis in odore vestimentorum nostrorum quod in +Paradiso Domini fuimus."--Colgan. + + + +THE FORAY OF CON O'DONNELL. +A.D. 1495. + +[Con, the son of Hugh Roe O'Donnell, with his small-powerful force,--and +the reason Con's force was called the small-powerful force was, because +he was always in the habit of mustering a force which did not exceed +twelve score of well-equipped and experienced battle-axe-men, and sixty +chosen active horsemen, fit for battle,--marched with the forementioned +force to the residence of MacJohn of the Glynnes (in the county of +Antrim); for Con had been informed that MacJohn had in possession the +finest woman, steed, and hound, of any other person in his +neighbourhood. He sent a messenger for the steed before that time, and +was refused, although Con had, at the same time, promised it to one of +his own people. Con did not delay, and got over every difficult pass +with his small-powerful force, without battle or obstruction, until he +arrived in the night at the house of MacJohn, whom he, in the first +place, took prisoner, and his wife, steed, and hound, and all his +property, were under Con's control, for he found the same steed, with +sixteen others, in the town on that occasion. All the Glynnes were +plundered on the following day by Con's people, but he afterwards, +however, made perfect restitution of all property, to whomsoever it +belonged, to MacJohn's wife, and he set her husband free to her after he +had passed the Bann westward. He brought with him the steed and great +booty and spoils, into Tirhugh, and ordered the cattle-prey to be let +out on the pasturage.--"Annals of the Four Masters," translated by Owen +Connellan, Esq., p. 331-2. This poem, founded upon the foregoing +passage (and in which the hero acts with more generosity than the Annals +warrant) was written and published in the Dublin University Magazine +before the appearance of Mr. O'Donovan's "Annals of the Kingdom of +Ireland,"--the magnificent work published in 1848 by Messrs. Hodges and +Smith, of this city. For Mr. O'Donovan's version of this passage, which +differs from that of the former translator in two or three important +particulars, see the second volume of his work, p. 1219. The principal +castle of the O'Donnell's was at Donegal. The building, of which some +portions still exist, was erected in the twelfth century. The +banqueting-hall, which is the scene of the opening portion of this +ballad, is still preserved, and commands some beautiful views.] + +The evening shadows sweetly fall +Along the hills of Donegal, +Sweetly the rising moonbeams play +Along the shores of Inver Bay,[77] +As smooth and white Lough Eask[78] expands +As Rosapenna's[79] silvery sands, +And quiet reigns all o'er thy fields, +Clan Dalaigh[80] of the golden shields. + +The fairy gun[81] is heard no more +To boom within the cavern'd shore, +With smoother roll the torrents flow +Adown the rocks of Assaroe;[82] +Securely, till the coming day, +The red deer couch in far Glenvay, +And all is peace and calm around +O'Donnell's castled moat and mound. + +But in the hall there feast to-night +Full many a kern and many a knight, +And gentle dames, and clansmen strong, +And wandering bards, with store of song: +The board is piled with smoking kine, +And smooth bright cups of Spanish wine, +And fish and fowl from stream and shaw, +And fragrant mead and usquebaugh. + +The chief is at the table's head-- +'Tis Con, the son of Hugh the Red-- +The heir of Conal Golban's line;[83] +With pleasure flushed, with pride and wine, +He cries, "Our dames adjudge it wrong, +To end our feast without the song; +Have we no bard the strain to raise? +No foe to taunt, no maid to praise? + +"Where beauty dwells the bard should dwell, +What sweet lips speak the bard should tell; +'Tis he should look for starry eyes, +And tell love's watchers where they rise: +To-night, if lips and eyes could do, +Bards were not wanting in Tirhugh; +For where have lips a rosier light, +And where are eyes more starry bright?" + +Then young hearts beat along the board, +To praise the maid that each adored, +And lips as young would fain disclose +The love within; but one arose, +Gray as the rocks beside the main,-- +Gray as the mist upon the plain,-- +A thoughtful, wandering, minstrel man, +And thus the aged bard began:-- + +"O Con, benevolent hand of peace! + O tower of valour firm and true! +Like mountain fawns, like snowy fleece, + Move the sweet maidens of Tirhugh. +Yet though through all thy realm I've strayed, + Where green hills rise and white waves fall, +I have not seen so fair a maid + As once I saw by Cushendall.[84] + +"O Con, thou hospitable Prince! + Thou, of the open heart and hand, +Full oft I've seen the crimson tints + Of evening on the western land. +I've wandered north, I've wandered south, + Throughout Tirhugh in hut and hall, +But never saw so sweet a mouth + As whispered love by Cushendall. + +"O Con, munificent gifts! + I've seen the full round harvest moon +Gleam through the shadowy autumn drifts + Upon thy royal rock of Doune.[85] +I've seen the stars that glittering lie + O'er all the night's dark mourning pall, +But never saw so bright an eye + As lit the glens of Cushendall. + +"I've wandered with a pleasant toil, + And still I wander in my dreams; +Even from the white-stoned beach, Loch Foyle, + To Desmond of the flowing streams. +I've crossed the fair green plains of Meath, + To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall; +But never saw such pearly teeth, + As her's that smiled by Cushendall. + +"O Con! thou'rt rich in yellow gold, + Thy fields are filled with lowing kine, +Within they castles wealth untold, + Within thy harbours fleets of wine; +But yield not, Con, to worldly pride + Thou may'st be rich, but hast not all; +Far richer he who for his bride + Has won fair Anne of Cushendall. + +"She leans upon a husband's arm, + Surrounded by a valiant clan, +In Antrim's Glynnes, by fair Glenarm, + Beyond the pearly-paven Bann; +'Mid hazel woods no stately tree + Looks up to heaven more graceful-tall, +When summer clothes its boughs, than she, + MacDonnell's wife of Cushendall!" + +The bard retires amid the throng, +No sweet applause rewards his song, +No friendly lip that guerdon breathes, +To bard more sweet than golden wreaths. +It might have been the minstrel's art +Had lost the power to move the heart, +It might have been his harp had grown +Too old to yield its wonted tone. + +But no, if hearts were cold and hard, +'Twas not the fault of harp or bard; +It was no false or broken sound +That failed to move the clansmen round. +Not these the men, nor these the times, +To nicely weigh the worth of rhymes; +'Twas what he said that made them chill, +And not his singing well or ill. + +Already had the stranger band +Of Saxons swept the weakened land, +Already on the neighbouring hills +They named anew a thousand rills, +"Our fairest castles," pondered Con, +"Already to the foe are gone, +Our noblest forests feed the flame, +And now we lose our fairest dame." + +But though his cheek was white with rage, +He seemed to smile, and cried--"O Sage! +O honey-spoken bard of truth! +MacDonnell is a valiant youth. +We long have been the Saxon's prey-- +Why not the Scot as well as they? +He's of as good a robber line +As any a Burke or Geraldine. + +"From Insi Gall,[86] so speaketh fame, +From Insi Gall his people came; +From Insi Gall, where storm winds roar +Beyond the gray Albin's icy shore. +His grandsire and his grandsire's son, +Full soon fat herds and pastures won; +But, by Columba! were we men, +We'd send the whole brood back again! + +"Oh! had we iron hands to dare, +As we have waxen hearts to bear, +Oh! had we manly blood to shed, +Or even to tinge our cheeks with red, +No bard could say as you have said, +One of the race of Somerled-- +A base intruder from the Isles-- +Basks in our island's sunniest smiles! + +"But, not to mar our feast to-night +With what to-morrow's sword may right, +O Bard of many songs! again +Awake thy sweet harp's silvery strain. +If beauty decks with peerless charm +MacDonnell's wife in fair Glenarm, +Say does there bound in Antrim's meads +A steed to match O'Donnell's steeds?" + +Submissive doth the bard incline + His reverend head, and cries, "O Con, +Thou heir of Conal Golban's line, + I've sang the fair wife of MacJohn; +You'll frown again as late you frowned, + But truth will out when lips are freed; +There's not a steed on Irish ground + To stand beside MacDonnell's steed! + +"Thy horses o'er Eargals' plains, + Like meteors stars their red eyes gleam; +With silver hoofs and broidered reins, + They mount the hill and swim the stream; +But like the wind through Barnesmore, + Or white-maned wave through Carrig-Rede,[87] +Or like a sea-bird to the shore, + Thus swiftly sweeps MacDonnell's steed! + +"A thousand graceful steeds had Fin, + Within lost Almhaim's fairy hall, +A thousand steeds as sleek of skin + As ever graced a chieftain's stall. +With gilded bridles oft they flew, + Young eagles in their lightning speed, +Strong as the cataract of Hugh,[88] + So swift and strong MacDonnell's steed!" + +Without the hearty word of praise, +Without the kindly smiling gaze, +Without the friendly hand to greet, +The daring bard resumes his seat. +Even in the hospitable face +Of Con, the anger you could trace. +But generous Con his wrath suppressed, +For Owen was Clan Dalaigh's guest. + +"Now, by Columba!" Con exclaimed, +"Methinks this Scot should be ashamed +To snatch at once, in sateless greed, +The fairest maid and finest steed; +My realm is dwindled in mine eyes, +I know not what to praise or prize, +And even my noble dog, O Bard, +Now seems unworthy my regard!" + +"When comes the raven of the sea + To nestle on an alien strand, +Oh! ever, ever will he be + The master of the subject land. +The fairest dame, he holdeth her-- + For him the noblest steed doth bound--; +Your dog is but a household cur, + Compared to John MacDonnell's hound! + +"As fly the shadows o'er the grass, + He flies with step as light and sure, +He hunts the wolf through Trosstan pass, + And starts the deer by Lisanoure! +The music of the Sabbath bells, + O Con, has not a sweeter sound +Than when along the valley swells + The cry of John MacDonnell's hound. + +"His stature tall, his body long, + His back like night, his breast like snow, +His fore-leg pillar-like and strong, + His hind-leg like a bended bow; +Rough, curling hair, head long and thin, + His ear a leaf so small and round: +Not Bran, the favourite hound of Fin, + Could rival John MacDonnell's hound. + +"O Con! thy bard will sing no more, + There is a fearful time at hand; +The Scot is on the northern shore, + The Saxon in the eastern land; +The hour comes on with quicker flight, + When all who live on Irish ground +Must render to the stranger's might + Both maid and wife, and steed and hound!" + +The trembling bard again retires, +But now he lights a thousand fires; +The pent-up flame bursts out at length, +In all its burning, tameless strength. +You'd think each clansman's foe was by, +So sternly flashed each angry eye; +You'd think 'twas in the battle's clang +O'Donnell's thundering accents rang! + +"No! by my sainted kinsman,[89] no! +This foul disgrace must not be so; +No, by the Shrines of Hy, I've sworn, +This foulest wrong must not be borne. +A better steed!--a fairer wife! +Was ever truer cause of strife? +A swifter hound!--a better steed! +Columba! these are cause indeed!" + +Again, like spray from mountain rill, +Up started Con: "By Collum Kille, +And by the blessed light of day, +This matter brooketh no delay. +The moon is down, the morn is up, +Come, kinsmen, drain a parting cup, +And swear to hold our next carouse, +With John MacJohn MacDonnell's spouse! + +"We've heard the song the bard has sung, +And as a healing herb among +Most poisonous weeds may oft be found, +So of this woman, steed, and hound; +The song has burned into our hearts, +And yet a lesson it imparts, +Had we but sense to read aright +The galling words we heard to-night. + +"What lesson does the good hound teach? +Oh, to be faithful each to each! +What lesson gives the noble steed? +Oh! to be swift in thought and deed! +What lesson gives the peerless wife? +Oh! there is victory after strife; +Sweet is the triumph, rich the spoil, +Pleasant the slumber after toil!" + +They drain the cup, they leave the hall, +They seek the armoury and stall, +The shield re-echoing to the spear +Proclaims the foray far and near; +And soon around the castles gate +Full sixty steeds impatient wait, +And every steed a knight upon, +The strong, small-powerful force of Con! + +Their lances in the red dawn flash, +As down by Easky's side they dash; +Their quilted jackets shine the more, +From gilded leather broidered o'er; +With silver spurs, and silken rein, +And costly riding-shoes from Spain; +Ah! much thou hast to fear, MacJohn, +The strong, small-powerful force of Con! + +As borne upon autumnal gales, +Wild whirring gannets pierce the sails +Of barks that sweep by Arran's shore,[90] +Thus swept the train through Barnesmore. +Through many a varied scene they ran, +By Castle Fin, and fair Strabane, +By many a hill, and many a clan, +Across the Foyle and o'er the Bann:-- + +Then stopping in their eagle flight, +They waited for the coming night, +And then, as Antrim's rivers rush +Straight from their founts with sudden gush, +Nor turn their strong, brief streams aside, +Until the sea receives their tide; +Thus rushed upon the doomed MacJohn +The swift, small-powerful force of Con. + +They took the castle by surprise, +No star was in the angry skies, +The moon lay dead within her shroud +Of thickly-folded ashen cloud; +They found the steed within his stall, +The hound within the oaken hall, +The peerless wife of thousand charms, +Within her slumbering husband's arms: + +The bard had pictured to the life +The beauty of MacDonnell's wife; +Not Evir[91] could with her compare +For snowy hand and shining hair; +The glorious banner morn unfurls +Were dark beside her golden curls; +And yet the blackness of her eye +Was darker than the moonless sky! + +If lovers listen to my lay, +Description is but thrown away; +If lovers read this antique tale, +What need I speak of red or pale? +The fairest form and brightest eye +Are simply those for which they sigh; +The truest picture is but faint +To what a lover's heart can paint. + +Well, she was fair, and Con was bold, +But in the strange, wild days of old; +To one rough hand was oft decreed +The noblest and the blackest deed. +'Twas pride that spurred O'Donnell on, +But still a generous heart had Con; +He wished to show that he was strong, +And not to do a bootless wrong. + +But now there's neither thought nor time +For generous act or bootless crime; +For other cares the thoughts demand +Of the small-powerful victor band. +They tramp along the old oak floors, +They burst the strong-bound chamber doors; +In all the pride of lawless power, +Some seek the vault, and some the tower. + +And some from out the postern pass, +And find upon the dew-wet grass +Full many a head of dappled deer, +And many a full-ey'd brown-back'd steer, +And heifers of the fragrant skins, +The pride of Antrim's grassy glynns, +Which with their spears they drive along, +A numerous, startled, bellowing throng. + +They leave the castle stripped and bare, +Each has his labour, each his share; +For some have cups, and some have plate, +And some have scarlet cloaks of state, +And some have wine, and some have ale, +And some have coats of iron mail, +And some have helms, and some have spears, +And all have lowing cows and steers! + +Away! away! the morning breaks +O'er Antrim's hundred hills and lakes; +Away! away! the dawn begins +To gild gray Antrim's deepest glynns; +The rosy steeds of morning stop, +As if to gaze on Collin top; +Ere they have left it bare and gray, +O'Donnell must be far away! + +The chieftain on a raven steed, +Himself the peerless dame doth lead, +Now like a pallid, icy corse, +And lifts her on her husband's horse; +His left hand holds his captive's rein, +His right is on the black steed's mane, +And from the bridle to the ground +Hangs the long leash that binds the hound. + +And thus before his victor clan, +Rides Con O'Donnell in the van; +Upon his left the drooping dame, +Upon his right, in wrath and shame, +With one hand free and one hand tied, +And eyes firm fixed upon his bride, +Vowing dread vengeance yet on Con, +Rides scowling, silent, stern MacJohn. + +They move with steps as swift as still, +'Twixt Collin mount and Slemish hill, +They glide along the misty plain, +And ford the sullen muttering Maine; +Some drive the cattle o'er the hills, +And some along the dried-up rills; +But still a strong force doth surround +The chiefs, the dame, the steed, and hound. + +Thus ere the bright-faced day arose, +The Bann lay broad between the foes. +But how to paint the inward scorn, +The self-reproach of those that morn, +Who waking found their chieftain gone, +The cattle swept from field and bawn, +The chieftain's castle stormed and drained, +And, worse than all, their honour stained! + +But when the women heard that Anne, +The queen, the glory of the clan +Was carried off by midnight foes, +Heavens! such despairing screams arose, +Such shrieks of agony and fright, +As only can be heard at night, +When Clough-i-Stookan's mystic rock +The wail of drowning men doth mock.[92] + +But thirty steeds are in the town, +And some are like the ripe heath, brown, +Some like the alder-berries, black, +Some like the vessel's foamy track; +But be they black, or brown, or white, +They are as swift as fawns in flight, +No quicker speed the sea gull hath +When sailing through the Gray Man's Path.[93] + +Soon are they saddled, soon they stand, +Ready to own the rider's hand, +Ready to dash with loosened rein +Up the steep hill, and o'er the plain; +Ready, without the prick of spurs, +To strike the gold cups from the furze: +And now they start with winged pace, +God speed them in their noble chase! + +By this time, on Ben Bradagh's height, +Brave Con had rested in his flight, +Beneath him, in the horizon's blue, +Lay his own valleys of Tirhugh. +It may have been the thought of home, +While resting on that mossy dome, +It may have been his native trees +That woke his mind to thoughts like these. + +"The race is o'er, the spoil is won, +And yet what boots it all I've done? +What boots it to have snatched away +This steed, and hound, and cattle-prey? +What boots it, with an iron hand +To tear a chieftain from his land, +And dim that sweetest light that lies +In a fond wife's adoring eyes? + +"If thus I madly teach my clan, +What can I hope from beast or man? +Fidelity a crime is found, +Or else why chain this faithful hound? +Obedience, too, a crime must be, +Or else this steed were roaming free; +And woman's love the worst of sins, +Or Anne were queen of Antrim's Glynnes! + +"If, when I reach my home to-night, +I see the yellow moonbeam's light +Gleam through the broken gate and wall +Of my strong fort of Donegal; +If I behold my kinsmen slain, +My barns devoid of golden grain, +How can I curse the pirate crew +For doing what this hour I do? + +"Well, in Columba's blessed name, +This day shall be a day of fame,-- +A day when Con in victory's hour +Gave up the untasted sweets of power; +Gave up the fairest dame on earth, +The noblest steed that e'er wore girth, +The noblest hound of Irish breed, +And all to do a generous deed." + +He turned and loosed MacDonnell's hand, +And led him where his steed doth stand; +He placed the bride of peerless charms +Within his longing, outstretched arms; +He freed the hound from chain and band, +Which, leaping, licked his master's hand; +And thus, while wonder held the crowd, +The generous chieftain spoke aloud:-- + +"MacJohn, I heard in wrathful hour + That thou in Antrim's glynnes possessed +The fairest pearl, the sweetest flower + That ever bloomed on Erin's breast. +I burned to think such prize should fall + To any Scotch or Saxon man, +But find that Nature makes us all + The children of one world-spread clan. + +"Within thy arms thou now dost hold + A treasure of more worth and cost +Than all the thrones and crowns of gold + That valour ever won or lost; +Thine is that outward perfect form, + Thine, too, the subtler inner life, +The love that doth that bright shape warm: + Take back, MacJohn, thy peerless wife!" + +"They praised thy steed. With wrath and grief + I felt my heart within me bleed, +That any but an Irish chief + Should press the back of such a steed; +I might to yonder smiling land + The noble beast reluctant lead; +But, no!--he'd miss thy guiding hand-- + Take back, MacJohn, thy noble steed. + +"The praises of thy matchless hound, + Burned in my breast like acrid wine; +I swore no chief on Irish ground + Should own a nobler hound than mine; +'Twas rashly sworn, and must not be, + He'd pine to hear the well-known sound, +With which thou call'st him to thy knee, + Take back, MacJohn, thy matchless hound. + +"MacJohn, I stretch to yours and you + This hand beneath God's blessed sun, +And for the wrong that I might do + Forgive the wrong that I have done; +To-morrow all that we have ta'en + Shall doubly, trebly be restored: +The cattle to the grassy plain, + The goblets to the oaken board. + +"My people from our richest meads + Shall drive the best our broad lands hold +For every steed a hundred steeds, + For every steer a hundred-fold; +For every scarlet cloak of state + A hundred cloaks all stiff with gold; +And may we be with hearts elate + Still older friends as we grow old. + +"Thou'st bravely won an Irish bride-- + An Irish bride of grace and worth-- +Oh! let the Irish nature glide + Into thy heart from this hour forth; +An Irish home thy sword has won, + A new-found mother blessed the strife; +Oh! be that mother's fondest son, + And love the land that gives you life! + +"Betwixt the Isles and Antrim's coast, + The Scotch and Irish waters blend; +But who shall tell, with idle boast, + Where one begins and one doth end? +Ah! when shall that glad moment gleam, + When all our hearts such spell shall feel? +And blend in one broad Irish stream, + On Irish ground for Ireland's weal? + +"Love the dear land in which you live, + Live in the land you ought to love; +Take root, and let your branches give + Fruits to the soil they wave above; +No matter what your foreign name, + No matter what your sires have done, +No matter whence or when you came, + The land shall claim you as a son!" + +As in the azure fields on high, +When Spring lights up the April sky, +The thick battalioned dusky clouds +Fly o'er the plain like routed crowds +Before the sun's resistless might! +Where all was dark, now all is bright; +The very clouds have turned to light, +And with the conquering beams unite! + +Thus o'er the face of John MacJohn +A thousand varying shades have gone; +Jealousy, anger, rage, disdain, +Sweep o'er his brow--a dusky train; +But nature, like the beam of spring, +Chaseth the crowd on sunny wing; +Joy warms his heart, hope lights his eye, +And the dark passions routed fly! + +The hands are clasped--the hound is freed, +Gone is MacJohn with wife and steed, +He meets his spearsmen some few miles, +And turns their scowling frowns to smiles: +At morn the crowded march begins +Of steeds and cattle for the glynnes; +Well for poor Erin's wrongs and griefs, +If thus would join her severed chiefs! + + +77. A beautiful inlet, about six miles west of Donegal. + +78. Lough Eask is about two miles from Donegal. Inglis describes it as +being as pretty a lake, on a small scale, as can well be imagined. + +79. The sands of Rosapenna are described as being composed of "hills +and dales, and undulating swells, smooth, solitary, and desolate, +reflecting the sun from their polished surface," &c. + +80. "Clan Dalaigh" is a name frequently given by Irish writers to the +Clan O'Donnell. + +81. The "Fairy Gun" is an orifice in a cliff near Bundoran (four miles +S.W. of Ballyshannon), into which the sea rushes with a noise like that +of artillery, and from which mist, and a chanting sound, issue in stormy +weather. + +82. The waterfall at Ballyshannon. + +83. The O'Donnells are descended from Conal Golban, son of Niall of the +Nine Hostages. + +84. Cushendall is very prettily situated on the eastern coast of the +county Antrim. This, with all the territory known as the "Glynnes" (so +called from the intersection of its surface by many rocky dells), from +Glenarm to Ballycastle, was at this time in the possession of the +MacDonnells, a clan of Scotch descent. The principal castle of the +MacDonnells was at Glenarm. + +85. The Rock of Doune, in Kilmacrenan, where the O'Donnells were +inaugurated. + +86. The Hebrides. + +87. Carrick-a-rede (Carraig-a-Ramhad)--the Rock in the Road lies off +the coast, between Ballycastle and Portrush; a chasm sixty feet in +breadth, and very deep, separates it from the coast. + +88. The waterfall of Assaroe, at Ballyshannon. + +89. St. Columba, who was an O'Donnell. + +90. "This bird (the Gannet) flys through the ship's sails, piercing +them with his beak."--O'Flaherty's "H-Iar Connaught," p. 12, published +by the Irish Archaeological Society. + +91. She was the wife of Oisin, the bard, who is said to have lived and +sung for some time at Cushendall, and to have been buried at Donegal. + +92. The Rock of Clough-i-Stookan lies on the shore between Glenarm and +Cushendall; it has some resemblance to a gigantic human figure.--"The +winds whistle through its crevices like the wailing of mariners in +distress."--Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii., p. 133. + +93. "The Gray Man's Path" (Casan an fir Leith) is a deep and remarkable +chasm, dividing the promontory of Fairhead (or Benmore) in two. + + + +THE BELL-FOUNDER. + + +PART I.--LABOUR AND HOPE. + +In that land where the heaven-tinted pencil giveth shape to the + splendour of dreams, +Near Florence, the fairest of cities, and Arno, the sweetest of streams, +'Neath those hills[94] whence the race of the Geraldine wandered in ages + long since, +For ever to rule over Desmond and Erin as martyr and prince, +Lived Paolo, the young Campanaro,[95] the pride of his own little vale-- +Hope changed the hot breath of his furnace as into a sea-wafted gale; +Peace, the child of Employment, was with him, with prattle so soothing + and sweet, +And Love, while revealing the future, strewed the sweet roses under his + feet. + +Ah! little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills, +Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills. +Ah! little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased slumber enjoys, +Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that + destroys, +Nothing to hope for, or labour for; nothing to sigh for, or gain; +Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain; +Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with its breath: +Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, and death! + +But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men, +Who, with hammer, or chisel, or pencil, with rudder, or ploughshare, or + pen, +Laboureth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life, +Winning home and its darling divinities--love-worshipped children and + wife, +Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the sharp chisel rings, +And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of + kings; +He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his race, +Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the strong world in the + face. + +And such was young Paolo! The morning, ere yet the faint starlight had + gone, +To the loud-ringing workshop beheld him move joyfully light-footed on. +In the glare and the roar of the furnace he toiled till the evening star + burned, +And then back again through that valley, as glad but more weary + returned. +One moment at morning he lingers by that cottage that stands by the + stream, +Many moments at evening he tarries by that casement that woos the moon's + beam; +For the light of his life and his labours, like a lamp from that + casement shines +In the heart-lighted face that looks out from that purple-clad trellis + of vines. + +Francesca! sweet, innocent maiden! 'tis not that thy young cheek is + fair, +Or thy sun-lighted eyes glance like stars through the curls of thy + wind-woven hair; +'Tis not for thy rich lips of coral, or even thy white breast of snow, +That my song shall recall thee, Francesca! but more for the good heart + below. +Goodness is beauty's best portion, a dower that no time can reduce, +A wand of enchantment and happiness, brightening and strengthening with + use. +One the long-sigh'd-for nectar that earthliness bitterly tinctures and + taints: +One the fading mirage of the fancy, and one the elysium it paints. + +Long ago, when thy father would kiss thee, the tears in his old eyes + would start, +For thy face--like a dream of his boyhood--renewed the fresh youth of + his heart; +He is gone; but thy mother remaineth, and kneeleth each night-time and + morn, +And blesses the Mother of Blessings for the hour her Francesca was born. +There are proud stately dwellings in Florence, and mothers and maidens + are there, +And bright eyes as bright as Francesca's, and fair cheeks as brilliantly + fair; +And hearts, too, as warm and as innocent, there where the rich paintings + gleam, +But what proud mother blesses her daughter like the mother by Arno's + sweet stream? + +It was not alone when that mother grew aged and feeble to hear, +That thy voice like the whisper of angels still fell on the old woman's + ear, +Or even that thy face, when the darkness of time overshadowed her sight, +Shone calm through the blank of her mind, like the moon in the midst of + the night. +But thine was the duty, Francesca, and the love-lightened labour was + thine, +To treasure the white-curling wool and the warm-flowing milk of the + kine, +And the fruits, and the clusters of purple, and the flock's tender + yearly increase, +That she might have rest in life's evening, and go to her Father in + peace. + +Francesca and Paolo are plighted, and they wait but a few happy days, +Ere they walk forth together in trustfulness out on Life's wonderful + ways; +Ere, clasping the hands of each other, they move through the stillness + and noise, +Dividing the cares of existence, but doubling its hopes and its joys. +Sweet days of betrothment, which brighten so slowly to love's burning + noon, +Like the days of the spring which grow longer, the nearer the fulness of + June, +Though ye move to the noon and the summer of Love with a slow-moving + wing, +Ye are lit with the light of the morning, and decked with the blossoms + of spring. + +The days of betrothment are over, for now when the evening star shines, +Two faces look joyfully out from that purple-clad trellis of vines; +The light-hearted laughter is doubled, two voices steal forth on the + air, +And blend in the light notes of song, or the sweet solemn cadence of + prayer. +At morning when Paolo departeth, 'tis out of that sweet cottage door, +At evening he comes to that casement, but passes that casement no more; +And the old feeble mother at night-time, when saying, "The Lord's will + be done," +While blessing the name of a daughter, now blendeth the name of a son. + + +PART II.--TRIUMPH AND REWARD. + +In the furnace the dry branches crackle, the crucible shines as with + gold, +As they carry the hot flaming metal in haste from the fire to the mould; +Loud roars the bellows, and louder the flames as they shrieking escape, +And loud is the song of the workmen who watch o'er the fast-filling + shape; +To and fro in the red-glaring chamber the proud master anxiously moves, +And the quick and the skilful he praiseth, and the dull and the laggard + reproves; +And the heart in his bosom expandeth, as the thick bubbling metal up + swells, +For like to the birth of his children he watcheth the birth of the + bells. + +Peace had guarded the door of young Paolo, success on his industry + smiled, +And the dark wing of Time had passed quicker than grief from the face of + a child; +Broader lands lay around that sweet cottage, younger footsteps tripped + lightly around, +And the sweet silent stillness was broken by the hum of a still sweeter + sound. +At evening when homeward returning how many dear hands must he press, +Where of old at that vine-covered wicket he lingered but one to caress; +And that dearest one is still with him, to counsel, to strengthen, and + calm, +And to pour over Life's needful wounds the healing of Love's blessed + balm. + +But age will come on with its winter, though happiness hideth its snows; +And if youth has its duty of labour, the birthright of age is repose: +And thus from that love-sweetened toil, which the heavens had so + prospered and blest, +The old Campanaro will go to that vine-covered cottage to rest; +But Paolo is pious and grateful, and vows as he kneels at her shrine, +To offer some fruit of his labour to Mary the Mother benign-- +Eight silver-toned bells will he offer, to toll for the quick and the + dead, +From the tower of the church of her convent that stands on the cliff + overhead. + +'Tis for this that the bellows are blowing, that the workmen their + sledge-hammers wield, +That the firm sandy moulds are now broken, and the dark-shining bells + are revealed; +The cars with their streamers are ready, and the flower-harnessed necks + of the steers, +And the bells from their cold silent workshop are borne amid blessings + and tears. +By the white-blossom'd, sweet-scented myrtles, by the olive-trees + fringing the plain, +By the corn-fields and vineyards is winding that gift-bearing, festival + train; +And the hum of their voices is blending with the music that streams on + the gale, +As they wend to the Church of our Lady that stands at the head of the + vale. + +Now they enter, and now more divinely the saints' painted effigies + smile, +Now the acolytes bearing lit tapers move solemnly down through the + aisle, +Now the thurifer swings the rich censer, and the white curling vapour + up-floats, +And hangs round the deep-pealing organ, and blends with the tremulous + notes. +In a white shining alb comes the abbot, and he circles the bells round + about, +And with oil, and with salt, and with water, they are purified inside + and out; +They are marked with Christ's mystical symbol, while the priests and the + choristers sing, +And are bless'd in the name of that God to whose honour they ever shall + ring. + +Toll, toll! with a rapid vibration, with a melody silv'ry and strong, +The bells from the sound-shaken belfry are singing their first maiden + song; +Not now for the dead or the living, or the triumphs of peace or of + strife, +But a quick joyous outburst of jubilee full of their newly-felt life; +Rapid, more rapid, the clapper rebounds from the round of the bells-- +Far and more far through the valley the intertwined melody swells-- +Quivering and broken the atmosphere trembles and twinkles around, +Like the eyes and the hearts of the hearers that glisten and beat to the + sound. + +But how to express all his rapture when echo the deep cadence bore +To the old Campanaro reclining in the shade of his vine-covered door, +How to tell of the bliss that came o'er him as he gazed on the fair + evening star, +And heard the faint toll of the vesper bell steal o'er the vale from + afar-- +Ah! it was not alone the brief ecstasy music doth ever impart +When Sorrow and Joy at its bidding come together and dwell in the heart; +But it was that delicious sensation with which the young mother is + blest, +As she lists to the laugh of her child as it falleth asleep on her + breast. + +From a sweet night of slumber he woke; but it was not that morn had + unroll'd +O'er the pale, cloudy tents of the Orient, her banners of purple and + gold: +It was not the song of the skylark that rose from the green pastures + near, +But the sound of his bells that fell softly, as dew on the slumberer's + ear. +At that sound he awoke and arose, and went forth on the bead-bearing + grass-- +At that sound, with his loving Francesca, he piously knelt at the Mass. +If the sun shone in splendour around him, and that certain music were + dumb, +He would deem it a dream of the night-time, and doubt if the morning had + come. + +At noon, as he lay in the sultriness, under his broad-leafy limes, +Far sweeter than murmuring waters came the tone of the Angelus chimes. +Pious and tranquil he rose, and uncovered his reverend head, +And thrice was the Ave Maria and thrice was the Angelus said, +Sweet custom the South still retaineth, to turn for a moment away +From the pleasures and pains of existence, from the trouble and turmoil + of day, +From the tumult within and without, to the peace that abideth on high, +When the deep, solemn sound from the belfry comes down like a voice from + the sky. + +And thus round the heart of the old man, at morning, at noon, and at + eve, +The bells, with their rich woof of music, the net-work of happiness + weave, +They ring in the clear, tranquil evening, and lo! all the air is alive, +As the sweet-laden thoughts come, like bees, to abide in the heart as a + hive. +They blend with his moments of joy, as the odour doth blend with the + flower-- +They blend with his light-falling tears, as the sunshine doth blend with + the shower. +As their music is mirthful or mournful, his pulse beateth sluggish or + fast, +And his breast takes its hue, like the ocean, as the sunshine or shadows + are cast. + +Thus adding new zest to enjoyment, and drawing the sharp sting from + pain, +The heart of the old man grew young, as it drank the sweet musical + strain. +Again at the altar he stands, with Francesca the fair at his side, +As the bells ring a quick peal of gladness, to welcome some happy young + bride. +'Tis true, when the death bells are tolling, the wounds of his heart + bleed anew, +When he thinks of his old loving mother, and the darlings that destiny + slew; +But the tower in whose shade they are sleeping seems the emblem of hope + and of love,-- +There is silence and death at its base, but there's life in the belfry + above. + +Was it the sound of his bells, as they swung in the purified air, +That drove from the bosom of Paolo the dark-wing`ed demons of care? +Was it their magical tone that for many a shadowless day +(So faith once believed) swept the clouds and the black-boding tempests + away? +Ah! never may Fate with their music a harsh-grating dissonance blend! +Sure an evening so calm and so bright will glide peacefully on to the + end. +Sure the course of his life, to its close, like his own native river + must be, +Flowing on through the valley of flowers to its home in the bright + summer sea! + + +PART III.--VICISSITUDE AND REST. + +O Erin! thou broad-spreading valley--thou well-watered land of fresh + streams, +When I gaze on thy hills greenly sloping, where the light of such + loveliness beams, +When I rest by the rim of thy fountains, or stray where thy streams + disembogue, +Then I think that the fairies have brought me to dwell in the bright + Tir-na-n-oge.[96] +But when on the face of thy children I look, and behold the big tears +Still stream down their grief-eaten channels, which widen and deepen + with years, +I fear that some dark blight for ever will fall on thy harvests of + peace, +And that, like thy lakes and thy rivers, thy sorrows must ever + increase.[97] + +O land! which the heavens made for joy, but where wretchedness buildeth + its throne-- +O prodigal spendthrift of sorrow! and hast thou not heirs of thine own? +Thus to lavish thy sons' only portion, and bring one sad claimant the + more, +From the sweet sunny lands of the south, to thy crowded and sorrowful + shore? +For this proud bark that cleaveth thy waters, she is not a corrach of + thine, +And the broad purple sails that spread o'er her seem dyed in the juice + of the vine. +Not thine is that flag, backward floating, nor the olive-cheek'd seamen + who guide, +Nor that heart-broken old man who gazes so listlessly over the tide. + +Accurs'd be the monster, who selfishly draweth his sword from its + sheath; +Let his garland be twined by the furies, and the upas tree furnish the + wreath; +Let the blood he has shed steam around him, through the length of + eternity's years, +And the anguish-wrung screams of his victims for ever resound in his + ears. +For all that makes life worth possessing must yield to his self-seeking + lust: +He trampleth on home and on love, as his war-horses trample the dust; +He loosens the red streams of ruin, which wildly, though partially, + stray-- +They but chafe round the rock-bastion'd castle, while they sweep the + frail cottage away. + +Feuds fell like a plague upon Florence, and rage from without and + within; +Peace turned her mild eyes from the havoc, and Mercy grew deaf in the + din; +Fear strengthened the dove-wings of happiness, tremblingly borne on the + gale; +And the angel Security vanished, as the war-demon swept o'er the vale. +Is it for the Mass or the Angelus new that the bells ever ring? +Or is it the red trickling mist such a purple reflection doth fling? +Ah, no: 'tis the tocsin of terror that tolls from the desolate shrine; +And the down-trodden vineyards are flowing, but not with the blood of + the vine. + +Deadly and dark was the tempest that swept o'er that vine-cover'd plain; +Burning and withering, its drops fell like fire on the grass and the + grain. +But the gloomiest moments must pass to their graves, as the brightest + and best, +And thus once again did fair Fiesole look o'er a valley of rest. +But, oh! in that brief hour of horror, that bloody eclipse of the sun, +What hopes and what dreams have been shattered?--what ruin and wrong + have been done? +What blossoms for ever have faded, that promised a harvest so fair; +And what joys are laid low in the dust that eternity cannot repair! + +Look down on that valley of sorrows, whence the land-marks of joy are + removed, +Oh! where is the darling Francesca, so loving, so dearly beloved?-- +And where are her children, whose voices rose music-winged once form + this spot? +And why are the sweet bells now silent? and where is the vine-cover'd + cot? +'Tis morning--no Mass-bell is tolling; 'tis noon, but no Angelus rings; +'Tis evening, but no drops of melody rain from her rose-coloured wings. +Ah! where have the angels, poor Paolo, that guarded thy cottage door + flown? +And why have they left thee to wander thus childless and joyless alone? + +His children had grown into manhood, but, ah! in that terrible night +Which had fallen on fair Florence, they perished away in the thick of + the fight; +Heart-blinded, his darling Francesca went seeking her sons through the + gloom, +And found them at length, and lay down full of love by their side in the + tomb, +That cottage, its vine-cover'd porch and its myrtle-bound garden of + flowers, +That church whence the bells with their voices, drown'd the sound of the + fast-flying hours, +Both are levelled and laid in the dust, and the sweet-sounding bells + have been torn +From their downfallen beams, and away by the red hand of sacrilege + borne. + +As the smith, in the dark, sullen smithy, striketh quick on the anvil + below, +Thus Fate on the heart of the old man struck rapidly blow after blow: +Wife, children, and hope passed away from the heart once so burning and + bold, +As the bright shining sparks disappear when the red glowing metal grows + cold. +He missed not the sound of his bells while those death-sounds struck + loud in the ears, +He missed not the church where they rang while his old eyes were blinded + with tears; +But the calmness of grief coming soon, in its sadness and silence + profound, +He listened once more as of old, but in vain, for the joy-bearing sound. + +When he felt indeed they had vanished, one fancy then flashed on his + brain, +One wish made his heart beat anew with a throbbing it could not + restrain-- +'Twas to wander away from fair Florence, its memory and dream-haunted + dells, +And to seek up and down through the earth for the sound of its magical + bells. +They will speak of the hopes that have perished, and the joys that have + faded so fast +With the music of memory wing`ed, they will seem but the voice of the + past; +As, when the bright morning has vanished, and evening grows starless and + dark, +The nightingale song of remembrance recalls the sweet strain of the + lark. + +Thus restlessly wandering through Italy, now by the Adrian sea, +In the shrine of Loreto, he bendeth his travel-tired suppliant knee; +And now by the brown troubled Tiber he taketh his desolate way, +And in many a shady basilica lingers to listen and pray. +He prays for the dear ones snatched from him, nor vainly nor hopelessly + prays, +For the strong faith in union hereafter like a beam o'er his cold bosom + plays; +He listens at morning and evening, when matin and vesper bells toll, +But their sweetest sounds grate on his ear, and their music is harsh to + his soul. + +For though sweet are the bells that ring out from the tall campanili of + Rome, +Ah! they are not the dearer and sweeter ones, tuned with the memory of + home. +So leaving proud Rome and fair Tivoli, southward the old man must stray, +'Till he reaches the Eden of waters that sparkle in Napoli's bay: +He sees not the blue waves of Baiae, nor Ischia's summits of brown, +He sees but the high campanili that rise o'er each far-gleaming town. +Driven restlessly onward, he saileth away to the bright land of Spain, +And seeketh thy shrine, Santiago, and stands by the western main. + +A bark bound for Erin lay waiting, he entered like one in a dream; +Fair winds in the full purple sails led him soon to the Shannon's broad + stream. +'Twas an evening that Florence might envy, so rich was the lemon-hued + air, +As it lay on lone Scattery's island, or lit the green mountains of + Clare; +The wide-spreading old giant river rolled his waters as smooth and as + still +As if Oonagh, with all her bright nymphs, had come down from the far + fairy hill,[98] +To fling her enchantments around on the mountains, the air, and the + tide, +And to soothe the worn heart of the old man who looked from the dark + vessel's side. + +Borne on the current the vessel glides smoothly but swiftly away, +By Carrigaholt, and by many a green sloping headland and bay, +'Twixt Cratloe's blue hills and green woods, and the soft sunny shores + of Tervoe, +And now the fair city of Limerick spreads out on the broad bank below; +Still nearer and nearer approaching, the mariners look o'er the town, +The old man sees nought but St. Mary's square tower, with its + battlements brown. +He listens--as yet all is silent, but now, with a sudden surprise, +A rich peal of melody rings from that tower through the clear evening + skies! + +One note is enough--his eye moistens, his heart, long so wither'd, + outswells, +He has found them--the sons of his labours--his musical, magical bells! +At each stroke all the bright past returneth, around him the sweet Arno + shines, +His children--his darling Francesca--his purple-clad trellis of vines! +Leaning forward, he listens, he gazes, he hears in that wonderful strain +The long-silent voices that murmur, "Oh, leave us not, father again!" +'Tis granted--he smiles--his eye closes--the breath from his white lips + hath fled-- +The father has gone to his children--the old Campanaro is dead! + + +94. The hills of Else. See Appendix to O'Daly's "History of the +Geraldines," translated by the Rev. C. P. Meehan, p. 130. + +95. Bell-founder. + +96. The country of youth; the Elysium of the Pagan Irish. + +97. Camden seems to credit a tradition commonly believed in his time, +of a gradual increase in the number and size of the lakes and rivers of +Ireland. + +98. The beautiful hill in Lower Ormond called "Knockshegowna," i.e., +Oonagh's Hill, so called from being the fabled residence of Oonagh (or +Una), the Fairy Queen of Spenser. One of the finest views of the +Shannon is to be seen from this hill. + + + +ALICE AND UNA. +A TALE OF CEIM-AN-EICH.[99] + +Ah! the pleasant time hath vanished, ere our wretched doubtings + banished, +All the graceful spirit-people, children of the earth and sea, +Whom in days now dim and olden, when the world was fresh and golden, +Every mortal could behold in haunted rath, and tower, and tree-- +They have vanished, they are banished--ah! how sad the loss for thee, + Lonely Ceim-an-eich! + +Still some scenes are yet enchanted by the charms that Nature granted, +Still are peopled, still are haunted, by a graceful spirit band. +Peace and beauty have their dwelling where the infant streams are + welling, +Where the mournful waves are knelling on Glengariff's coral strand; +Or where, on Killarney's mountains, Grace and Terror smiling stand, + Like sisters, hand in hand! + +Still we have a new romance in fire-ships through the tamed sea + glancing, +And the snorting and the prancing of the mighty engine steed; +Still, Astolpho-like, we wander through the boundless azure yonder, +Realizing what seemed fonder than the magic tales we read: +Tales of wild Arabian wonder, where the fancy all is freed-- + Wilder far indeed! + +Now that Earth once more hath woken, and the trance of Time is broken, +And the sweet word--Hope--is spoken, soft and sure, though none know + how, +Could we, could we only see all these, the glories of the Real, +Blended with the lost Ideal, happy were the old world now-- +Woman in its fond believing--man with iron arm and brow-- + Faith and work its vow! + +Yes! the Past shines clear and pleasant, and there's glory in the + Present; +And the Future, like a crescent, lights the deepening sky of Time; +And that sky will yet grow brighter, if the Worker and the Writer-- +If the Sceptre and the Mitre join in sacred bonds sublime. +With two glories shining o'er them, up the coming years they'll climb, + Earth's great evening as its prime! + +With a sigh for what is fading, but, O Earth! with no upbraiding, +For we feel that time is braiding newer, fresher flowers for thee, +We will speak, despite our grieving, words of loving and believing, +Tales we vowed when we were leaving awful Ceim-an-eich, +Where the sever'd rocks resemble fragments of a frozen sea, + And the wild deer flee! + +'Tis the hour when flowers are shrinking, when the weary sun is sinking, +And his thirsty steeds are drinking in the cooling western sea; +When young Maurice lightly goeth, where the tiny streamlet floweth +And the struggling moonlight showeth where his path must be-- +Path whereon the wild goats wander fearlessly and free + Through dark Ceim-an-eich. + +As a hunter, danger daring, with his dogs the brown moss sharing, +Little thinking, little caring, long a wayward youth lived he; +But his bounding heart was regal, and he looked as looks the eagle, +And he flew as flies the beagle, who the panting stag doth see: +Love, who spares a fellow-archer, long had let him wander free + Through wild Ceim-an-eich! + +But at length the hour drew nigher when his heart should feel that fire; +Up the mountain high and higher had he hunted from the dawn; +Till the weeping fawn descended, where the earth and ocean blended, +And with hope its slow way wended to a little grassy lawn; +It is safe, for gentle Alice to her saving breast hath drawn + Her almost sister fawn. + +Alice was a chieftain's daughter, and, though many suitors sought her, +She so loved Glengariff's water that she let her lovers pine; +Her eye was beauty's palace, and her cheek an ivory chalice, +Through which the blood of Alice gleamed soft as rosiest wine, +And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the fairies intertwine,[100] + And her heart a golden mine. + +She was gentler and shyer than the light fawn that stood by her, +And her eyes emit a fire soft and tender as her soul; +Love's dewy light doth drown her, and the braided locks that crown her +Than autumn's trees are browner, when the golden shadows roll +Through the forests in the evening, when cathedral turrets toll, + And the purple sun advanceth to its goal. + +Her cottage was a dwelling all regal homes excelling, +But, ah! beyond the telling was the beauty round it spread: +The wave and sunshine playing, like sisters each arraying, +Far down the sea-plants swaying upon their coral bed, +As languid as the tresses on a sleeping maiden's head, + When the summer breeze is dead. + +Need we say that Maurice loved her, and that no blush reproved her +When her throbbing bosom moved her to give the heart she gave; +That by dawnlight and by twilight, and, O blessed moon! by thy light, +When the twinkling stars on high light the wanderer o'er the wave, +His steps unconscious led him where Glengariff's waters lave + Each mossy bank and cave. + +He thitherward is wending, o'er the vale is night descending, +Quick his step, but quicker sending his herald thoughts before; +By rocks and streams before him, proud and hopeful on he bore him; +One star was shining o'er him--in his heart of hearts two more-- +And two other eyes, far brighter than a human head e'er wore, + Unseen were shining o'er. + +These eyes are not of woman, no brightness merely human +Could, planet-like, illumine the place in which they shone; +But Nature's bright works vary--there are beings light and airy, +Whom mortal lips call fairy, and Una she is one-- +Sweet sisters of the moonbeams and daughters of the sun, + Who along the curling cool waves run. + +As summer lightning dances amid the heavens' expanses, +Thus shone the burning glances of those flashing fairy eyes; +Three splendours there were shining, three passions intertwining, +Despair and hope combining their deep-contrasted dyes, +With jealousy's green lustre, as troubled ocean vies + With the blue of summer skies! + +She was a fairy creature, of heavenly form and feature, +Not Venus' self could teach her a newer, sweeter grace, +Not Venus' self could lend her an eye so dark and tender, +Half softness and half splendour, as lit her lily face; +And as the choral planets move harmonious throughout space, + There was music in her pace. + +But when at times she started, and her blushing lips were parted, +And a pearly lustre darted from her teeth so ivory white, +You'd think you saw the gliding of two rosy clouds dividing, +And the crescent they were hiding gleam forth upon your sight +Through these lips, as though the portals of a heaven pure and bright, + Came a breathing of delight! + +Though many an elf-king loved her, and elf-dames grave reproved her, +The hunter's daring moved her more wildly every hour; +Unseen she roamed beside him, to guard him and to guide him, +But now she must divide him from her human rival's power. +Ah! Alice!--gentle Alice! the storm begins to lower + That may crush Glengariff's flower! + +The moon, that late was gleaming, as calm as childhood's dreaming, +Is hid, and, wildly screaming, the stormy winds arise; +And the clouds flee quick and faster before their sullen master, +And the shadows of disaster are falling from the skies; +Strange sights and sounds are rising--but, Maurice, be thou wise, + Nor heed the tempting cries. + +If ever mortal needed that council, surely he did; +But the wile has now succeeded--he wanders from his path; +The cloud its lightning sendeth, and its bolt the stout oak rendeth, +And the arbutus back bendeth in the whirlwind, as a lath! +Now and then the moon looks out, but, alas! its pale face hath + A dreadful look of wrath. + +In vain his strength he squanders--at each step he wider wanders-- +Now he pauses--now he ponders where his present path may lead; +And, as he round is gazing, he sees--a sight amazing-- +Beneath him, calmly grazing, a noble jet-black steed. +"Now, heaven be praised!" cried Maurice, "for this succour in my need-- + From this labyrinth I'm freed!" + +Upon its back he leapeth, but a shudder through him creepeth, +As the mighty monster sweepeth like a torrent through the dell; +His mane, so softly flowing, is now a meteor blowing, +And his burning eyes are glowing with the light of an inward hell; +And the red breath of his nostrils, like steam where the lightning fell; + And his hoofs have a thunder knell! + +What words have we for painting the momentary fainting +That the rider's heart is tainting, as decay doth taint a corse? +But who will stoop to chiding, in a fancied courage priding, +When we know that he is riding the fearful Phooka Horse?[101] +Ah! his heart beats quick and faster than the smitings of remorse + As he sweepeth through the wild grass and gorse! + +As the avalanche comes crashing, 'mid the scattered streamlets + splashing, +Thus backward wildly dashing flew the horse through Ceim-an-eich-- +Through that glen so wide and narrow back he darted like an arrow-- +Round, round by Gougane Barra, and the fountains of the Lee; +O'er the Giant's Grave he leapeth, and he seems to own in fee + The mountains, and the rivers, and the sea! + +From his flashing hoofs who shall lock the eagle homes of Malloc, +When he bounds, as bounds the Mialloch[102] in its wild and murmuring + tide? +But as winter leadeth Flora, or the night leads on Aurora, +Or as shines green Glashenglora[103] along the black hill's side, +Thus, beside that demon monster, white and gentle as a bride, + A tender fawn is seen to glide. + +It is the fawn that fled him, and that late to Alice led him, +But now it does not dread him, as it feigned to do before, +When down the mountain gliding, in that sheltered meadow hiding, +It left his heart abiding by wild Glengariff's shore: +For it was a gentle fairy who the fawn's light form thus wore, + And who watched sweet Alice o'er. + +But the steed is backward prancing where late it was advancing, +And his flashing eyes are glancing, like the sun upon Lough Foyle; +The hardest granite crushing, through the thickest brambles brushing, +Now like a shadow rushing up the sides of Slieve-na-goil! +And the fawn beside him gliding o'er the rough and broken soil, + Without fear and without toil. + +Through woods, the sweet birds' leaf home, he rusheth to the sea foam, +Long, long the fairies' chief home, when the summer nights are cool, +And the blue sea, like a syren, with its waves the steed environ, +Which hiss like furnace iron when plunged within a pool, +Then along among the islands where the water nymphs bear rule, + Through the bay to Adragool. + +Now he rises o'er Berehaven, where he hangeth like a raven-- +Ah! Maurice, though no craven, how terrible for thee +To see the misty shading of the mighty mountains fading, +And thy winged fire-steed wading through the clouds as through a sea! +Now he feels the earth beneath him--he is loosen'd--he is free, + And asleep in Ceim-an-eich. + +Away the wild steed leapeth, while his rider calmly sleepeth +Beneath a rock which keepeth the entrance to the glen, +Which standeth like a castle, where are dwelling lord and vassal, +Where within are wind and wassail, and without are warrior men; +But save the sleeping Maurice, this castle cliff had then + No mortal denizen![104] + +Now Maurice is awaking, for the solid earth is shaking, +And a sunny light is breaking through the slowly opening stone +And a fair page at the portal crieth, "Welcome, welcome! mortal, +Leave thy world (at best a short ill), for the pleasant world we own: +There are joys by thee untasted, there are glories yet unknown-- + Come kneel at Una's throne." + +With a sullen sound of thunder, the great rock falls asunder, +He looks around in wonder, and with ravishment awhile, +For the air his sense is chaining, with as exquisite a paining +As when summer clouds are raining o'er a flowery Indian isle; +And the faces that surround him, oh! how exquisite their smile, + So free of mortal care and guile. + +These forms, oh! they are finer--these faces are diviner +Than, Phidias, even thine are, with all thy magic art; +For beyond an artist's guessing, and beyond a bard's expressing, +Is the face that truth is dressing with the feelings of the heart; +Two worlds are there together--earth and heaven have each a part-- + And of such, divinest Una, thou art! + +And then the dazzling lustre of the hall in which they muster-- +Where the brightest diamonds cluster on the flashing walls around; +And the flying and advancing, and the sighing and the glancing. +And the music and the dancing on the flower-inwoven ground, +And the laughing and the feasting, and the quaffing and the sound, + In which their voices all are drowned. + +But the murmur now is hushing--there's a pushing and a rushing, +There's a crowding and a crushing, through that golden, fairy place, +Where a snowy veil is lifting, like the slow and silent shifting +Of a shining vapour drifting across the moon's pale face-- +For there sits gentle Una, fairest queen of fairy race, + In her beauty, and her majesty, and grace. + +The moon by stars attended, on her pearly throne ascended, +Is not more purely splendid than this fairy-girted queen; +And when her lips had spoken, 'mid the charmed silence broken, +You'd think you had awoken in some bright Elysian scene; +For her voice than the lark's was sweeter, that sings in joy between + The heavens and the meadows green. + +But her cheeks--ah! what are roses?--what are clouds where eve + reposes?-- +What are hues that dawn discloses?--to the blushes spreading there; +And what the sparkling motion of a star within the ocean, +To the crystal soft emotion that her lustrous dark eyes wear? +And the tresses of a moonless and a starless night are fair + To the blackness of her raven hair. + +Ah! mortal hearts have panted for what to thee is granted-- +To see the halls enchanted of the spirit world revealed; +And yet no glimpse assuages the feverish doubt that rages +In the hearts of bards and sages wherewith they may be healed; +For this have pilgrims wandered--for this have votaries kneeled-- + For this, too, has blood bedewed the field. + +"And now that thou beholdest what the wisest and the oldest, +What the bravest and the boldest, have never yet descried, +Wilt thou come and share our being, be a part of what thou'rt seeing, +And flee, as we are fleeing, through the boundless ether wide? +Or along the silver ocean, or down deep where pale pearls hide? + And I, who am a queen, will be thy bride. + +"As an essence thou wilt enter the world's mysterious centre," +And then the fairy bent her, imploring to the youth-- +"Thou'lt be free of Death's cold ghastness, and, with a comet's + fastness, +Thou canst wander through the vastness to the Paradise of Truth, +Each day a new joy bringing, which will never leave in sooth + The slightest stain of weariness and ruth." + +As he listened to the speaker, his heart grew weak and weaker-- +Ah! Memory, go seek her, that maiden by the wave, +Who with terror and amazement is looking from her casement, +Where the billows at the basement of her nestled cottage rave, +At the moon which struggles onward through the tempest, like the brave, + And which sinks within the clouds as in a grave. + +All maidens will abhor us, and it's very painful for us +To tell how faithless Maurice forgot his plighted vow: +He thinks not of the breaking of the heart he late was seeking, +He but listens to her speaking, and but gazes on her brow; +And his heart has all consented, and his lips are ready now + With the awful and irrevocable vow. + +While the word is there abiding, lo! the crowd is now dividing, +And, with sweet and gentle gliding, in before him came a fawn; +It was the same that fled him, and that seemed so much to dread him, +When it down in triumph led him to Glengariff's grassy lawn, +When, from rock to rock descending, to sweet Alice he was drawn, + As through Ceim-an-eich he hunted from the dawn. + +The magic chain is broken--no fairy vow is spoken-- +From his trance he hath awoken, and once again is free; +And gone is Una's palace, and vain the wild steed's malice, +And again to gentle Alice down he wends through Ceim-an-eich: +The moon is calmly shining over mountain, stream, and tree, + And the yellow sea-plants glisten through the sea. + +The sun his gold is flinging, the happy birds are singing, +And bells are gaily ringing along Glengariff's sea; +And crowds in many a galley to the happy marriage rally +Of the maiden of the valley and the youth of Ceim-an-eich; +Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask on bended knee + A blessing, gentle Alice, upon thee! + + +99. The pass of Keim-an-eigh (the path of the deer) lies to the +south-west of Inchageela, in the direction of Bantry Bay. + +100. The lusmore (or fairy cap), literally the great herb, 'Digitalis +purpurea.' + +101. The Phooka is described as belonging to the malignant class of +fairy beings, and he is as wild and capricious in his character as he is +changeable in his form. At one time an eagle or an 'ignis fatuus,' at +another a horse or a bull, while occasionally he figures as a compound +of the calf and goat. When he assumes the form of a horse, his great +object, according to a recent writer, seems to be to obtain a rider, and +then he is in his most malignant glory.--See Croker's "Fairy Legends." + +102. Mialloch, "the murmuring river" at Glengariff.--Smith's "Cork." + +103. Glashenglora, a mountain torrent, which finds its way into +the Atlantic Ocean through Glengariff, in the west of the county of +Cork. The name, literally translated, signifies "the noisy green +water."--Barry's "Songs of Ireland," p. 173. + +104. There is a great square rock, literally resembling the description +in the text, which stands near the Glengariff entrance to the pass of +Ceim-an-eich. + + + + +National Poems and Songs. + + + +ADVANCE! + +God bade the sun with golden step sublime, + Advance! +He whispered in the listening ear of Time, + Advance! +He bade the guiding spirits of the stars, +With lightning speed, in silver shining cars, +Along the bright floor of his azure hall, + Advance! +Sun, stars, and time obey the voice, and all + Advance! + +The river at its bubbling fountain cries, + Advance! +The clouds proclaim, like heralds through the skies, + Advance! +Throughout the world the mighty Master's laws +Allow not one brief moment's idle pause; +The earth is full of life, the swelling seeds + Advance! +And summer hours, like flowery harnessed steeds, + Advance! + +To man's most wondrous hand the same voice cried, + Advance! +Go clear the woods, and o'er the bounding tide + Advance! +Go draw the marble from its secret bed, +And make the cedar bend its giant head; +Let domes and columns through the wondering air + Advance! +The world, O man! is thine; but, wouldst thou share, + Advance! + +Unto the soul of man the same voice spoke, + Advance! +From out the chaos, thunder-like, it broke, + "Advance! +Go track the comet in its wheeling race, +And drag the lightning from its hiding-place; +From out the night of ignorance and fears, + Advance! +For Love and Hope, borne by the coming years, + Advance!" + +All heard, and some obeyed the great command, + Advance! +It passed along from listening land to land, + Advance! +The strong grew stronger, and the weak grew strong, +As passed the war-cry of the world along-- +Awake, ye nations, know your powers and rights-- + Advance! +Through hope and work to Freedom's new delights, + Advance! + +Knowledge came down and waved her steady torch, + Advance! +Sages proclaimed 'neath many a marble porch, + Advance! +As rapid lightning leaps from peak to peak, +The Gaul, the Goth, the Roman, and the Greek, +The painted Briton caught the wing`ed word, + Advance! +And earth grew young, and carolled as a bird, + Advance! + +O Ireland! oh, my country, wilt thou not + Advance? +Wilt thou not share the world's progressive lot?-- + Advance! +Must seasons change, and countless years roll on, +And thou remain a darksome Ajalon? +And never see the crescent moon of Hope + Advance? +'Tis time thine heart and eye had wider scope-- + Advance! + +Dear brothers, wake! look up! be firm! be strong + Advance! +From out the starless night of fraud and wrong + Advance! +The chains have fall'n from off thy wasted hands, +And every man a seeming freedman stands;-- +But, ah! 'tis in the soul that freedom dwells,-- + Advance! +Proclaim that there thou wearest no manacles;-- + Advance! + +Advance! thou must advance or perish now;-- + Advance! +Advance! Why live with wasted heart and brow?-- + Advance! +Advance! or sink at once into the grave; +Be bravely free or artfully a slave! +Why fret thy master, if thou must have one? + Advance! +Advance three steps, the glorious work is done;-- + Advance! + +The first is COURAGE--'tis a giant stride!-- + Advance! +With bounding step up Freedom's rugged side + Advance! +KNOWLEDGE will lead thee to the dazzling heights, +TOLERANCE will teach and guard thy brother's rights. +Faint not! for thee a pitying Future waits-- + Advance! +Be wise, be just, with will as fixed as Fate's,-- + Advance! + + + +REMONSTRANCE. + +Bless the dear old verdant land, + Brother, wert thou born of it? +As thy shadow life doth stand, +Twining round its rosy band, +Did an Irish mother's hand + Guide thee in the morn of it? +Did thy father's soft command + Teach thee love or scorn of it? + +Thou who tread'st its fertile breast, + Dost thou feel a glow for it? +Thou, of all its charms possest, +Living on its first and best, +Art thou but a thankless guest, + Or a traitor foe for it? +If thou lovest, where the test? + Wouldst thou strike a blow for it? + +Has the past no goading sting + That can make thee rouse for it? +Does thy land's reviving spring, +Full of buds and blossoming, +Fail to make thy cold heart cling, + Breathing lover's vows for it? +With the circling ocean's ring + Thou wert made a spouse for it! + +Hast thou kept, as thou shouldst keep, + Thy affections warm for it, +Letting no cold feeling creep, +Like the ice breath o'er the deep, +Freezing to a stony sleep + Hopes the heart would form for it-- +Glories that like rainbows weep + Through the darkening storm for it? + +What we seek is Nature's right-- + Freedom and the aids of it;-- +Freedom for the mind's strong flight +Seeking glorious shapes star-bright +Through the world's intensest night, + When the sunshine fades of it! +Truth is one, and so is light, + Yet how many shades of it! + +A mirror every heart doth wear, + For heavenly shapes to shine in it; +If dim the glass or dark the air, +That Truth, the beautiful and fair, +God's glorious image, shines not there, + Or shines with nought divine in it: +A sightless lion in its lair, + The darkened soul must pine in it! + +Son of this old, down-trodden land, + Then aid us in the fight for it; +We seek to make it great and grand, +Its shipless bays, its naked strand, +By canvas-swelling breezes fanned. + Oh! what a glorious sight for it! +The past expiring like a brand, + In morning's rosy light for it! + +Think that this dear old land is thine, + And thou a traitor slave of it; +Think how the Switzer leads his kine, +When pale the evening star doth shine, +His song has home in every line, + Freedom in every stave of it! +Think how the German loves his Rhine, + And worships every wave of it! + +Our own dear land is bright as theirs, + But, oh! our hearts are cold for it; +Awake! we are not slaves but heirs; +Our fatherland requires our cares, +Our work with man, with God our prayers. + Spurn blood-stained Judas-gold for it, +Let us do all that honour dares-- + Be earnest, faithful, bold for it! + + + +IRELAND'S VOW. + +Come! Liberty, come! we are ripe for thy coming-- + Come freshen the hearts where thy rival has trod-- +Come, richest and rarest!--come, purest and fairest!-- + Come, daughter of Science!--come, gift of the God! + +Long, long have we sighed for thee, coyest of maidens-- + Long, long have we worshipped thee, queen of the brave! +Steadily sought for thee, readily fought for thee, + Purpled the scaffold and glutted the grave! + +On went the fight through the cycle of ages, + Never our battle-cry ceasing the while; +Forward, ye valiant ones! onward, battalioned ones! + Strike for your Erin, your own darling isle! + +Still in the ranks are we, struggling with eagerness, + Still in the battle for Freedom are we! +Words may avail in it--swords if they fail in it, + What matters the weapon, if only we're free? + +Oh! we are pledged in the face of the universe, + Never to falter and never to swerve; +Toil for it!--bleed for it!--if there be need for it, + Stretch every sinew and strain every nerve! + +Traitors and cowards our names shall be ever, + If for a moment we turn from the chase; +For ages exhibited, scoffed at, and gibbeted, + As emblems of all that was servile and base! + +Irishmen! Irishmen! think what is Liberty, + Fountain of all that is valued and dear, +Peace and security, knowledge and purity, + Hope for hereafter and happiness here. + +Nourish it, treasure it deep in your inner heart-- + Think of it ever by night and by day; +Pray for it!--sigh for it!--work for it!--die for it!-- + What is this life and dear freedom away? + +List! scarce a sound can be heard in our thoroughfares-- + Look! scarce a ship can be seen on our streams; +Heart-crushed and desolate, spell-bound, irresolute, + Ireland but lives in the bygone of dreams! + +Irishmen! if we be true to our promises, + Nerving our souls for more fortunate hours, +Life's choicest blessings, love's fond caressings, + Peace, home, and happiness, all shall be ours! + + + +A DREAM. + +I dreamt a dream, a dazzling dream, of a green isle far away, +Where the glowing West to the ocean's breast calleth the dying day; +And that island green was as fair a scene as ever man's eye did see, +With its chieftains bold and its temples old, and its homes and its + altars free! +No foreign foe did that green isle know, no stranger band it bore, +Save the merchant train from sunny Spain, and from Afric's golden shore! +And the young man's heart would fondly start, and the old man's eye + would smile, +As their thoughts would roam o'er the ocean foam to that lone and "holy + isle!" + +Years passed by, and the orient sky blazed with a newborn light, +And Bethlehem's star shone bright afar o'er the lost world's darksome + night; +And the diamond shrines from plundered mines, and the golden fanes of + Jove, +Melted away in the blaze of day at the simple spellword--Love! +The light serene o'er that island green played with its saving beams, +And the fires of Baal waxed dim and pale like the stars in the morning + streams! +And 'twas joy to hear, in the bright air clear, from out each sunny + glade, +The tinkling bell, from the quiet cell, or the cloister's tranquil + shade! + +A cloud of night o'er that dream so bright soon with its dark wing came, +And the happy scene of that island green was lost in blood and shame; +For its kings unjust betrayed their trust, and its queens, though fair, + were frail, +And a robber band, from a stranger land, with their war-whoops filled + the gale; +A fatal spell on that green isle fell, a shadow of death and gloom +Passed withering o'er, from shore to shore, like the breath of the foul + simoom; +And each green hill's side was crimson dyed, and each stream rolled red + and wild, +With the mingled blood of the brave and good--of mother and maid and + child! + +Dark was my dream, though many a gleam of hope through that black night + broke, +Like a star's bright form through a whistling storm, or the moon through + a midnight oak! +And many a time, with its wings sublime, and its robes of saffron light, +Would the morning rise on the eastern skies, but to vanish again in + night! +For, in abject prayer, the people there still raised their fettered + hands, +When the sense of right and the power to smite are the spirit that + commands; +For those who would sneer at the mourner's tear, and heed not the + suppliant's sigh, +Would bow in awe to that first great law, a banded nation's cry! + +At length arose o'er that isle of woes a dawn with a steadier smile, +And in happy hour a voice of power awoke the slumbering isle! +And the people all obeyed the call of their chief's unsceptred hand, +Vowing to raise, as in ancient days, the name of their own dear land! +My dream grew bright as the sunbeam's light, as I watched that isle's + career, +Through the varied scene and the joys serene of many a future year; +And, oh! what a thrill did my bosom fill as I gazed on a pillared pile, +Where a senate once more in power watched o'er the rights of that lone + green isle! + + + +THE PRICE OF FREEDOM. + +Man of Ireland, heir of sorrow, + Wronged, insulted, scorned, oppressed, +Wilt thou never see that morrow + When thy weary heart may rest? +Lift thine eyes, thou outraged creature; + Nay, look up, for man thou art, +Man in form, and frame, and feature, + Why not act man's god-like part? + +Think, reflect, inquire, examine, + Is it for this God gave you birth-- +With the spectre look of famine, + Thus to creep along the earth? +Does this world contain no treasures + Fit for thee, as man, to wear?-- +Does this life abound in pleasures, + And thou askest not to share? + +Look! the nations are awaking, + Every chain that bound them burst! +At the crystal fountains slaking + With parched lips their fever thirst! +Ignorance the demon, fleeing, + Leaves unlocked the fount they sip; +Wilt thou not, thou wretched being, + Stoop and cool thy burning lip? + +History's lessons, if thou'lt read 'em, + All proclaim this truth to thee: +Knowledge is the price of freedom, + Know thyself, and thou art free! +Know, O man! thy proud vocation, + Stand erect, with calm, clear brow-- +Happy! happy were our nation, + If thou hadst that knowledge now! + +Know thy wretched, sad condition, + Know the ills that keep thee so; +Knowledge is the sole physician, + Thou wert healed if thou didst know! +Those who crush, and scorn, and slight thee, + Those to whom thou once wouldst kneel, +Were the foremost then to right thee, + Didst thou but feel as thou shouldst feel! + +Not as beggars lowly bending, + Not in sighs, and groans, and tears, +But a voice of thunder sending + Through thy tyrant brother's ears! +Tell him he is not thy master, + Tell him of man's common lot, +Feel life has but one disaster, + To be a slave, and know it not! + +Didst but prize what knowledge giveth, + Didst but know how blest is he +Who in Freedom's presence liveth, + Thou wouldst die, or else be free! +Round about he looks in gladness, + Joys in heaven, and earth, and sea, +Scarcely heaves a sigh of sadness, + Save in thoughts of such as thee! + + + +THE VOICE AND PEN. + +Oh! the orator's voice is a mighty power, + As it echoes from shore to shore, +And the fearless pen has more sway o'er men + Than the murderous cannon's roar! +What burst the chain far over the main, + And brighten'd the captive's den? +'Twas the fearless pen and the voice of power, + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +The tyrant knaves who deny man's rights, + And the cowards who blanch with fear, +Exclaim with glee: "No arms have ye, + Nor cannon, nor sword, nor spear! +Your hills are ours--with our forts and towers + We are masters of mount and glen!" +Tyrants, beware! for the arms we bear + Are the Voice and the fearless Pen! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +Though your horsemen stand with their bridles in hand, + And your sentinels walk around! +Though your matches flare in the midnight air, + And your brazen trumpets sound! +Oh! the orator's tongue shall be heard among + These listening warrior men; +And they'll quickly say: "Why should we slay + Our friends of the Voice and Pen?" + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +When the Lord created the earth and sea, + The stars and the glorious sun, +The Godhead spoke, and the universe woke + And the mighty work was done! +Let a word be flung from the orator's tongue, + Or a drop from the fearless pen, +And the chains accursed asunder burst + That fettered the minds of men! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + +Oh! these are the swords with which we fight, + The arms in which we trust, +Which no tyrant hand will dare to brand, + Which time cannot dim or rust! +When these we bore we triumphed before, + With these we'll triumph again! +And the world will say no power can stay + The Voice and the fearless Pen! + Hurrah! + Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! + + + +"CEASE TO DO EVIL--LEARN TO DO WELL."[105] + +Oh! thou whom sacred duty hither calls, + Some glorious hours in freedom's cause to dwell, +Read the mute lesson on thy prison walls, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well." + +If haply thou art one of genius vast, + Of generous heart, of mind sublime and grand, +Who all the spring-time of thy life has pass'd + Battling with tyrants for thy native land, +If thou hast spent thy summer as thy prime, + The serpent brood of bigotry to quell, +Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +If thy great heart beat warmly in the cause + Of outraged man, whate'er his race might be, +If thou hast preached the Christian's equal laws, + And stayed the lash beyond the Indian sea! +If at thy call a nation rose sublime, + If at thy voice seven million fetters fell,-- +Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +If thou hast seen thy country's quick decay, + And, like the prophet, raised thy saving hand, +And pointed out the only certain way + To stop the plague that ravaged o'er the land! +If thou hast summoned from an alien clime + Her banished senate here at home to dwell: +Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +Or if, perchance, a younger man thou art, + Whose ardent soul in throbbings doth aspire, +Come weal, come woe, to play the patriot's part + In the bright footsteps of thy glorious sire +If all the pleasures of life's youthful time + Thou hast abandoned for the martyr's cell, +Do thou repent thee of thy hideous crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +Or art thou one whom early science led + To walk with Newton through the immense of heaven, +Who soared with Milton, and with Mina bled, + And all thou hadst in freedom's cause hast given? +Oh! fond enthusiast--in the after time + Our children's children of thy worth shall tell-- +England proclaims thy honesty a crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +Or art thou one whose strong and fearless pen + Roused the Young Isle, and bade it dry its tears, +And gathered round thee ardent, gifted men, + The hope of Ireland in the coming years? +Who dares in prose and heart-awakening rhyme, + Bright hopes to breathe and bitter truths to tell? +Oh! dangerous criminal, repent thy crime, + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + +"Cease to do evil"--ay! ye madmen, cease! + Cease to love Ireland--cease to serve her well; +Make with her foes a foul and fatal peace, + And quick will ope your darkest, dreariest cell. +"Learn to do well"--ay! learn to betray, + Learn to revile the land in which you dwell +England will bless you on your altered way + "Cease to do evil--learn to do well!" + + +105. This inscription is on the front of Richmond Penitentiary, Dublin, +in which O'Connell and the other political prisoners were confined in +the year 1844. + + + +THE LIVING LAND. + +We have mourned and sighed for our buried pride,[106] + We have given what nature gives, +A manly tear o'er a brother's bier, + But now for the Land that lives! +He who passed too soon, in his glowing noon, + The hope of our youthful band, +From heaven's blue wall doth seem to call + "Think, think of your Living Land! +I dwell serene in a happier scene, + Ye dwell in a Living Land!" + +Yes! yes! dear shade, thou shalt be obeyed, + We must spend the hour that flies, +In no vain regret for the sun that has set, + But in hope for another to rise; +And though it delay with its guiding ray, + We must each, with his little brand, +Like sentinels light through the dark, dark night, + The steps of our Living Land. +She needeth our care in the chilling air-- + Our old, dear Living Land! + +Yet our breasts will throb, and the tears will throng + To our eyes for many a day, +For an eagle in strength and a lark in song + Was the spirit that passed away. +Though his heart be still as a frozen rill, + And pulseless his glowing hand, +We must struggle the more for that old green shore + He was making a Living Land. +By him we have lost, at whatever the cost, + She must be a Living Land! + +A Living Land, such as Nature plann'd, + When she hollowed our harbours deep, +When she bade the grain wave o'er the plain, + And the oak wave over the steep: +When she bade the tide roll deep and wide, + From its source to the ocean strand, +Oh! it was not to slaves she gave these waves, + But to sons of a Living Land! +Sons who have eyes and hearts to prize + The worth of a Living Land! + +Oh! when shall we lose the hostile hues, + That have kept us so long apart? +Or cease from the strife, that is crushing the life + From out of our mother's heart? +Could we lay aside our doubts and our pride, + And join in a common band, +One hour would see our country free, + A young and a Living Land! +With a nation's heart and a nation's part, + A free and a Living Land! + + +106. Thomas Davis. + + + +THE DEAD TRIBUNE. + + The awful shadow of a great man's death + Falls on this land, so sad and dark before-- + Dark with the famine and the fever breath, + And mad dissensions knawing at its core. + Oh! let us hush foul discord's maniac roar, + And make a mournful truce, however brief, + Like hostile armies when the day is o'er! + And thus devote the night-time of our grief +To tears and prayers for him, the great departed chief. + + In "Genoa the Superb" O'Connell dies-- + That city of Columbus by the sea, + Beneath the canopy of azure skies, + As high and cloudless as his fame must be. + Is it mere chance or higher destiny + That brings these names together? One, the bold + Wanderer in ways that none had trod but he-- + The other, too, exploring paths untold; +One a new world would seek, and one would save the old! + + With childlike incredulity we cry, + It cannot be that great career is run, + It cannot be but in the eastern sky + Again will blaze that mighty world-watch'd sun! + Ah! fond deceit, the east is dark and dun, + Death's black, impervious cloud is on the skies; + Toll the deep bell, and fire the evening gun, + Let honest sorrow moisten manly eyes: +A glorious sun has set that never more shall rise! + + Brothers, who struggle yet in Freedom's van, + Where'er your forces o'er the world are spread, + The last great champion of the rights of man-- + The last great Tribune of the world is dead! + Join in our grief, and let our tears be shed + Without reserve or coldness on his bier; + Look on his life as on a map outspread-- + His fight for freedom--freedom far and near-- +And if a speck should rise, oh! hide it with a tear! + + To speak his praises little need have we + To tell the wonders wrought within these waves + Enough, so well he taught us to be free, + That even to him we could not kneel as slaves. + Oh! let our tears be fast-destroying graves, + Where doubt and difference may for ever lie, + Buried and hid as in sepulchral caves; + And let love's fond and reverential eye +Alone behold the star new risen in the sky! + + But can it be, that well-known form is stark? + Can it be true, that burning heart is chill? + Oh! can it be that twinkling eye is dark? + And that great thunder voice is hush'd and still? + Never again upon the famous hill + Will he preside as monarch of the land, + With myriad myriads subject to his will; + Never again shall raise that powerful hand, +To rouse, to warm, to check, to kindle, and command! + + The twinkling eye, so full of changeful light, + Is dimmed and darkened in a dread eclipse; + The withering scowl, the smile so sunny bright, + Alike have faded from his voiceless lips. + The words of power, the mirthful, merry quips, + The mighty onslaught, and the quick reply, + The biting taunts that cut like stinging whips, + The homely truth, the lessons grave and high, +All, all are with the past, but cannot, shall not die! + + + +A MYSTERY. + +They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing, +They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing; +They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing, +And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing! + + God of Justice! God of Power! + Do we dream? Can it be? + In this land, at this hour, + With the blossom on the tree, + In the gladsome month of May, + When the young lambs play, + When Nature looks around + On her waking children now, + The seed within the ground, + The bud upon the bough? + Is it right, is it fair, + That we perish of despair + In this land, on this soil, + Where our destiny is set, + Which we cultured with our toil, + And watered with our sweat? + + We have ploughed, we have sown + But the crop was not our own; + We have reaped, but harpy hands + Swept the harvest from our lands; + We were perishing for food, + When, lo! in pitying mood, + Our kindly rulers gave + The fat fluid of the slave, + While our corn filled the manger + Of the war-horse of the stranger! + + God of Mercy! must this last? + Is this land preordained + For the present and the past, + And the future, to be chained, + To be ravaged, to be drained, + To be robbed, to be spoiled, + To be hushed, to be whipt, + Its soaring pinions clipt, + And its every effort foiled? + + Do our numbers multiply + But to perish and to die? + Is this all our destiny below, + That our bodies, as they rot, + May fertilise the spot + Where the harvests of the stranger grow? + + If this be, indeed, our fate, + Far, far better now, though late, +That we seek some other land and try some other zone; + The coldest, bleakest shore + Will surely yield us more +Than the store-house of the stranger that we dare not call our own. + + Kindly brothers of the West, + Who from Liberty's full breast +Have fed us, who are orphans, beneath a step-dame's frown, + Behold our happy state, + And weep your wretched fate +That you share not in the splendours of our empire and our crown! + + Kindly brothers of the East, + Thou great tiara'd priest, +Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth-- + Or thou who bear'st control + Over golden Istambol, +Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our dearth, + + Turn here your wondering eyes, + Call your wisest of the wise, +Your Muftis and your ministers, your men of deepest lore; + Let the sagest of your sages + Ope our island's mystic pages, +And explain unto your Highness the wonders of our shore. + + A fruitful teeming soil, + Where the patient peasants toil +Beneath the summer's sun and the watery winter sky-- + Where they tend the golden grain + Till it bends upon the plain, +Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die. + + Where they watch their flocks increase, + And store the snowy fleece, +Till they send it to their masters to be woven o'er the waves; + Where, having sent their meat + For the foreigner to eat, +Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into their graves. + +'Tis for this they are dying where the golden corn is growing, +'Tis for this they are dying where the crowded herds are lowing, +'Tis for this they are dying where the streams of life are flowing, +And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing. + + + + +Sonnets. + + + +AFTER READING J. T. GILBERT'S "THE HISTORY OF DUBLIN." + +Long have I loved the beauty of thy streets, + Fair Dublin: long, with unavailing vows, + Sigh'd to all guardian deities who rouse +The spirits of dead nations to new heats +Of life and triumph:--vain the fond conceits, + Nestling like eaves-warmed doves 'neath patriot brows! + Vain as the "Hope," that from thy Custom-House +Looks o'er the vacant bay in vain for fleets. + Genius alone brings back the days of yore: +Look! look, what life is in these quaint old shops-- +The loneliest lanes are rattling with the roar + of coach and chair; fans, feathers, flambeaus, fops, +Flutter and flicker through yon open door, + Where Handel's hand moves the great organ stops.[107] + +March 11th, 1856. + + +107. It is stated that the "Messiah" was first publicly performed in +Dublin. See Gilbert's "History of Dublin," vol. i. p. 75, and +Townsend's "Visit of Handel to Dublin," p. 64. + + + +TO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + +(Dedication of Calderon's "Chrysanthus and Daria.") + +Pensive within the Coliseum's walls + I stood with thee, O Poet of the West!-- + The day when each had been a welcome guest +In San Clemente's venerable halls:-- +With what delight my memory now recalls + That hour of hours, that flower of all the rest, + When, with thy white beard falling on thy breast, + That noble head, that well might serve as Paul's +In some divinest vision of the saint + By Raffael dreamed--I heard thee mourn the dead-- + The martyred host who fearless there, though faint, +Walked the rough road that up to heaven's gate led: + These were the pictures Calderon loved to paint + In golden hues that here perchance have fled. + +Yet take the colder copy from my hand, + Not for its own but for the Master's sake; + Take it, as thou, returning home, wilt take + From that divinest soft Italian land +Fixed shadows of the beautiful and grand + In sunless pictures that the sun doth make-- + Reflections that may pleasant memories wake + Of all that Raffael touched, or Angelo planned:-- +As these may keep what memory else might lose, + So may this photograph of verse impart + An image, though without the native hues +Of Calderon's fire, and yet with Calderon's art, + Of what thou lovest through a kindred muse + That sings in heaven, yet nestles in the heart. + +Dublin, August 24th, 1869. + + + +TO KENELM HENRY DIGBY, +AUTHOR OF "MORES CATHOLICI," "THE BROADSTONE OF HONOUR," +"COMPITUM," ETC. + +(On being presented by him with a copy, painted by himself, of a rare +Portrait of Calderon.) + +How can I thank thee for this gift of thine, + Digby, the dawn and day-star of our age, + Forerunner thou of many a saint and sage +Who since have fought and conquer'd 'neath the Sign? +Thou hast left, as in a sacred shrine-- + What shrine more pure than thy unspotted page?-- + The priceless relics, as a heritage, +Of loftiest thoughts and lessons most divine. + Poet and teacher of sublimest lore, +Thou scornest not the painter's mimic skill, +And thus hath come, obedient to thy will + The outward form that Calderon's spirit wore. +Ah! happy canvas that two glories fill, + Where Calderon lives 'neath Digby's hand once more. + +October 15th, 1878. + + + +TO ETHNA.[108] + +Ethna, to cull sweet flowers divinely fair, + To seek for gems of such transparent light + As would not be unworthy to unite +Round thy fair brow, and through thy dark-brown hair, +I would that I had wings to cleave the air, + In search of some far region of delight, + That back to thee from that adventurous flight, +A glorious wreath my happy hands might bear; + Soon would the sweetest Persian rose be thine-- +Soon would the glory of Golconda's mine +Flash on thy forehead, like a star--ah! me, + In place of these, I bring, with trembling hand, +These fading wild flowers from our native land-- + These simple pebbles from the Irish Sea! + + +108. This sonnet to the poet's wife was prefixed as a dedication to his +first volume of poems. + + + + +Underglimpses. + + + +THE ARRAYING. + +The blue-eyed maidens of the sea +With trembling haste approach the lee, +So small and smooth, they seem to be +Not waves, but children of the waves, +And as each link`ed circle laves +The crescent marge of creek and bay, +Their mingled voices all repeat-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +We come to bathe thy snow-white feet. + +We bring thee treasures rich and rare, +White pearl to deck thy golden hair, +And coral beads, so smoothly fair +And free from every flaw or speck; +That they may lie upon thy neck, +This sweetest day--this brightest day +That ever on the green world shone-- + O lovely May, O long'd-for May! +As if thy neck and thee were one. + +We bring thee from our distant home +Robes of the pure white-woven foam, +And many a pure, transparent comb, +Formed of the shells the tortoise plaits, +By Babelmandeb's coral-straits; +And amber vases, with inlay +Of roseate pearl time never dims-- + O lovely May! O longed-for May! +Wherein to lave thine ivory limbs. + +We bring, as sandals for thy feet, +Beam-broidered waves, like those that greet, +With green and golden chrysolite, +The setting sun's departing beams, +When all the western water seems +Like emeralds melted by his ray, +So softly bright, so gently warm-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +That thou canst trust thy tender form. + +And lo! the ladies of the hill, +The rippling stream, and sparkling rill, +With rival speed, and like good will, +Come, bearing down the mountain's side +The liquid crystals of the tide, +In vitreous vessels clear as they, +And cry, from each worn, winding path: + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +We come to lead thee to the bath. + +And we have fashioned, for thy sake, +Mirrors more bright than art could make-- +The silvery-sheeted mountain lake +Hangs in its carv`ed frame of rocks, +Wherein to dress thy dripping locks, +Or bind the dewy curls that stray +Thy trembling breast meandering down-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +Within their self-woven crown. + +Arise, O May! arise and see +Thine emerald robes are held for thee +By many a hundred-handed tree, +Who lift from all the fields around +The verdurous velvet from the ground, +And then the spotless vestments lay, +Smooth-folded o'er their outstretch'd arms-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +Wherein to fold thy virgin charms. + +Thy robes are stiff with golden bees, +Dotted with gems more bright than these, +And scented by each perfumed breeze +That, blown from heaven's re-open'd bowers, +Become the souls of new-born flowers, +Who thus their sacred birth betray; +Heavenly thou art, nor less should be-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +The favour'd forms that wait on thee. + +The moss to guard thy feet is spread, +The wreaths are woven for thy head, +The rosy curtains of thy bed +Become transparent in the blaze +Of the strong sun's resistless gaze: +Then lady, make no more delay, +The world still lives, though spring be dead-- + O lovely May! O long'd-for May! +And thou must rule and reign instead. + +The lady from her bed arose, +Her bed the leaves the moss-bud blows +Herself a lily in that rose; +The maidens of the streams and sands +Bathe some her feet and some her hands: +And some the emerald robes display; +Her dewy locks were then upcurled, + And lovely May--the long'd-for May-- +Was crown'd the Queen of all the World! + + + +THE SEARCH. + +Let us seek the modest May, + She is down in the glen, + Hiding and abiding + From the common gaze of men, + Where the silver streamlet crosses + O'er the smooth stones green with mosses, + And glancing and dancing, + Goes singing on its way-- +We shall find the modest maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the merry May, + She is up on the hill, + Laughing and quaffing + From the fountain and the rill. + Where the southern zephyr sprinkles, + Like bright smiles on age's wrinkles, + O'er the edges and ledges + Of the rocks, the wild flowers gay-- +We shall find the merry maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the musing May, + She is deep in the wood, + Viewing and pursuing + The beautiful and good. + Where the grassy bank receding, + Spreads its quiet couch for reading + The pages of the sages, + And the poet's lyric lay-- +We shall find the musing maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the mirthful May, + She is out on the strand + Racing and chasing + The ripples o'er the sand. + Where the warming waves discover + All the treasures that they cover, + Whitening and brightening + The pebbles for her play-- +We shall find the mirthful maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek the wandering May, + She is off to the plain, + Finding the winding + Of the labyrinthine lane. + She is passing through its mazes + While the hawthorn, as it gazes + With grief, lets its leaflets + Whiten all the way-- +We shall find the wandering maiden there to-day. + +Let us seek her in the ray-- + Let us track her by the rill-- + Wending ascending + The slopings of the hill. + Where the robin from the copses + Breathes a love-note, and then drops his + Trilling, till, willing, + His mate responds his lay-- +We shall find the listening maiden there to-day. + +But why seek her far away? + Like a young bird in its nest, + She is warming and forming + Her dwelling in her breast. + While the heart she doth repose on, + Like the down the sunwind blows on, + Gloweth, yet showeth + The trembling of the ray-- +We shall find the happy maiden there to-day. + + + +THE TIDINGS. + +A bright beam came to my window frame, + This sweet May morn, +And it said to the cold, hard glass: + Oh! let me pass, +For I have good news to tell, +The queen of the dewy dell, + The beautiful May is born! + +Warm with the race, through the open space, + This sweet May morn, +Came a soft wind out of the skies: + And it said to my heart--Arise! +Go forth from the winter's fire, +For the child of thy long desire, + The beautiful May is born! + +The bright beam glanced and the soft wind danced, + This sweet May morn, +Over my cheek and over my eyes; + And I said with a glad surprise: +Oh! lead me forth, ye blessed twain, +Over the hill and over the plain, + Where the beautiful May is born. + +Through the open door leaped the beam before + This sweet May morn, +And the soft wind floated along, + Like a poet's song, +Warm from his heart and fresh from his brain; +And they led me over the mount and plain, + To the beautiful May new-born. + +My guide so bright and my guide so light, + This sweet May morn, +Led me along o'er the grassy ground, + And I knew by each joyous sight and sound, +The fields so green and the skies so gay, +That heaven and earth kept holiday, + That the beautiful May was born. + +Out of the sea with their eyes of glee, + This sweet May morn, +Came the blue waves hastily on; + And they murmuring cried--Thou happy one! +Show us, O Earth! thy darling child, +For we heard far out on the ocean wild, + That the beautiful May was born. + +The wing`ed flame to the rosebud came, + This sweet May morn, +And it said to the flower--Prepare! + Lay thy nectarine bosom bare; +Full soon, full soon, thou must rock to rest, +And nurse and feed on thy glowing breast, + The beautiful May now born. + +The gladsome breeze through the trembling trees, + This sweet May morn, +Went joyously on from bough to bough; + And it said to the red-branched plum--O thou, +Cover with mimic pearls and gems, +And with silver bells, thy coral stems, + For the beautiful May now born. + +Under the eaves and through the leaves + This sweet May morn, +The soft wind whispering flew: + And it said to the listening birds--Oh, you, +Sweet choristers of the skies, +Awaken your tenderest lullabies, + For the beautiful May now born. + +The white cloud flew to the uttermost blue, + This sweet May morn, +It bore, like a gentle carrier-dove, + The bless`ed news to the realms above; +While its sister coo'd in the midst of the grove, +And within my heart the spirit of love, + That the beautiful May was born! + + + +WELCOME, MAY. + +Welcome, May! welcome, May! +Thou hast been too long away, + All the widow'd wintry hours +Wept for thee, gentle May; + But the fault was only ours-- +We were sad when thou wert gay! + +Welcome, May! welcome, May! +We are wiser far to-day-- + Fonder, too, than we were then. +Gentle May! joyous May! + Now that thou art come again, +We perchance may make thee stay. + +Welcome, May! welcome, May! +Everything kept holiday + Save the human heart alone. +Mirthful May! gladsome May! + We had cares and thou hadst none +When thou camest last this way! + +When thou camest last this way +Blossoms bloomed on every spray, + Buds on barren boughs were born-- +Fertile May! fruitful May! + Like the rose upon the thorn +Cannot grief awhile be gay? + +'Tis not for the golden ray, +Or the flowers that strew thy way, + O immortal One! thou art +Here to-day, gentle May-- + 'Tis to man's ungrateful heart +That thy fairy footsteps stray. + +'Tis to give that living clay +Flowers that ne'er can fade away-- + Fond remembrances of bliss; +And a foretaste, mystic May, + Of the life that follows this, +Full of joys that last alway! + +Other months are cold and gray, +Some are bright, but what are they? + Earth may take the whole eleven-- +Hopeful May--happy May! + Thine the borrowed month of heaven +Cometh thence and points the way. + +Wing`ed minstrels come and play +Through the woods their roundelay; + Who can tell but only thou, +Spirit-ear'd, inspir`ed May, + On the bud-embow'r`ed bough +What the happy lyrists say? + +Is the burden of their lay +Love's desire, or Love's decay? + Are there not some fond regrets +Mix'd with these, divinest May, + For the sun that never sets +Down the everlasting day? + +But upon thy wondrous way +Mirth alone should dance and play-- + No regrets, how fond they be, +E'er should wound the ear of May-- + Bow before her, flower and tree! +Nor, my heart, do thou delay. + + + +THE MEETING OF THE FLOWERS. + +There is within this world of ours + Full many a happy home and hearth; + What time, the Saviour's blessed birth +Makes glad the gloom of wintry hours. + +When back from severed shore and shore, + And over seas that vainly part, + The scattered embers of the heart +Glow round the parent hearth once more. + +When those who now are anxious men, + Forget their growing years and cares; + Forget the time-flakes on their hairs, +And laugh, light-hearted boys again. + +When those who now are wedded wives, + By children of their own embraced, + Recall their early joys, and taste +Anew the childhood of their lives. + +And the old people--the good sire + And kindly parent-mother--glow + To feel their children's children throw +Fresh warmth around the Christmas fire. + +When in the sweet colloquial din, + Unheard the sullen sleet-winds shout; + And though the winter rage without, +The social summer reigns within. + +But in this wondrous world of ours + Are other circling kindred chords, + Binding poor harmless beasts and birds, +And the fair family of flowers. + +That family that meet to-day + From many a foreign field and glen, + For what is Christmas-tide with men +Is with the flowers the time of May. + +Back to the meadows of the West, + Back to their natal fields they come; + And as they reach their wished-for home, +The Mother folds them to her breast. + +And as she breathes, with balmy sighs, + A fervent blessing over them, + The tearful, glistening dews begem +The parents' and the children's eyes. + +She spreads a carpet for their feet, + And mossy pillows for their heads, + And curtains round their fairy beds +With blossom-broidered branches sweet. + +She feeds them with ambrosial food, + And fills their cups with nectared wine; + And all her choristers combine +To sing their welcome from the wood: + +And all that love can do is done, + As shown to them in countless ways: + She kindles to the brighter blaze +The fireside of the world--the sun. + +And with her own soft, trembling hands, + In many a calm and cool retreat, + She laves the dust that soils their feet +In coming from the distant lands. + +Or, leading down some sinuous path, + Where the shy stream's encircling heights + Shut out all prying eyes, invites +Her lily daughters to the bath. + +There, with a mother's harmless pride, + Admires them sport the waves among: + Now lay their ivory limbs along +The buoyant bosom of the tide. + +Now lift their marble shoulders o'er + The rippling glass, or sink with fear, + As if the wind approaching near +Were some wild wooer from the shore. + +Or else the parent turns to these, + The younglings born beneath her eye, + And hangs the baby-buds close by, +In wind-rocked cradles from the trees. + +And as the branches fall and rise, + Each leafy-folded swathe expands: + And now are spread their tiny hands, +And now are seen their starry eyes. + +But soon the feast concludes the day, + And yonder in the sun-warmed dell, + The happy circle meet to tell +Their labours since the bygone May. + +A bright-faced youth is first to raise + His cheerful voice above the rest, + Who bears upon his hardy breast +A golden star with silver rays:[109] + +Worthily won, for he had been + A traveller in many a land, + And with his slender staff in hand +Had wandered over many a green: + +Had seen the Shepherd Sun unpen + Heaven's fleecy flocks, and let them stray + Over the high-pealed Himalay, +Till night shut up the fold again: + +Had sat upon a mossy ledge, + O'er Baiae in the morning's beams, + Or where the sulphurous crater steams +Had hung suspended from the edge: + +Or following its devious course + Up many a weary winding mile, + Had tracked the long, mysterious Nile +Even to its now no-fabled source: + +Resting, perchance, as on he strode, + To see the herded camels pass + Upon the strips of wayside grass +That line with green the dust-white road. + +Had often closed his weary lids + In oases that deck the waste, + Or in the mighty shadows traced +By the eternal pyramids. + +Had slept within an Arab's tent, + Pitched for the night beneath a palm, + Or when was heard the vesper psalm, +With the pale nun in worship bent: + +Or on the moonlit fields of France, + When happy village maidens trod + Lightly the fresh and verdurous sod, +There was he seen amid the dance: + +Yielding with sympathizing stem + To the quick feet that round him flew, + Sprang from the ground as they would do, +Or sank unto the earth with them: + +Or, childlike, played with girl and boy + By many a river's bank, and gave + His floating body to the wave, +Full many a time to give them joy. + +These and a thousand other tales + The traveller told, and welcome found; + These were the simple tales went round +The happy circles in the vales. + +Keeping reserved with conscious pride + His noblest act, his crowning feat, + How he had led even Humboldt's feet +Up Chimborazo's mighty side. + +Guiding him through the trackless snow, + By sheltered clefts of living soil, + Sweet'ning the fearless traveller's toil, +With memories of the world below. + +Such was the hardy Daisy's tale, + And then the maidens of the group-- + Lilies, whose languid heads down droop +Over their pearl-white shoulders pale-- + +Told, when the genial glow of June + Had passed, they sought still warmer climes + And took beneath the verdurous limes +Their sweet siesta through the noon: + +And seeking still, with fond pursuit, + The phantom Health, which lures and wiles + Its followers to the shores and isles +Of amber waves, and golden fruit. + +There they had seen the orange grove + Enwreath its gold with buds of white, + As if themselves had taken flight, +And settled on the boughs above. + +There kiss'd by every rosy mouth + And press'd to every gentle breast, + These pallid daughters of the West +Reigned in the sunshine of the South. + +And thoughtful of the things divine, + Were oft by many an altar found, + Standing like white-robed angels round +The precincts of some sacred shrine. + +And Violets, with dark blue eyes, + Told how they spent the winter time, + In Andalusia's Eden clime, +Or 'neath Italia's kindred skies. + +Chiefly when evening's golden gloom + Veil'd Rome's serenest ether soft, + Bending in thoughtful musings oft, +Above the lost Alastor's tomb; + +Or the twin-poet's; he who sings + "A thing of beauty never dies," + Paying them back in fragrant sighs, +The love they bore all loveliest things. + +The flower[110] whose bronz`ed cheeks recalls + The incessant beat of wind and sun, + Spoke of the lore his search had won +Upon Pompeii's rescued walls. + +How, in his antiquarian march, + He crossed the tomb-strewn plain of Rome, + Sat on some prostrate plinth, or clomb +The Coliseum's topmost arch. + +And thence beheld in glad amaze + What Nero's guilty eyes, aloof, + Drank in from off his golden roof-- +The sun-bright city all ablaze: + +Ablaze by day with solar fires-- + Ablaze by night with lunar beams, + With lambent lustre on its streams, +And golden glories round its spires! + +Thence he beheld that wondrous dome, + That, rising o'er the radiant town, + Circles, with Art's eternal crown, +The still imperial brow of Rome. + +Nor was the Marigold remiss, + But told how in her crown of gold + She sat, like Persia's king of old, +High o'er the shores of Salamis; + +And saw, against the morning sky, + The white-sailed fleets their wings display; + And ere the tranquil close of day, +Fade, like the Persian's from her eye. + +Fleets, with their white flags all unfurl'd, + Inscribed with "Commerce," and with "Peace," + Bearing no threatened ill to Greece, +But mutual good to all the world. + +And various other flowers were seen: + Cowslip and Oxlip, and the tall + Tulip, whose grateful hearts recall +The winter homes where they had been. + +Some in the sunny vales, beneath + The sheltering hills; and some, whose eyes + Were gladdened by the southern skies, +High up amid the blooming heath. + +Meek, modest flowers, by poets loved, + Sweet Pansies, with their dark eyes fringed + With silken lashes finely tinged, +That trembled if a leaf but moved: + +And some in gardens where the grass + Mossed o'er the green quadrangle's breast, + There dwelt each flower, a welcome guest, +In crystal palaces of glass: + +Shown as a beauteous wonder there, + By beauty's hands to beauty's eyes, + Breathing what mimic art supplies, +The genial glow of sun-warm air. + +Nor were the absent ones forgot, + Those whom a thousand cares detained, + Those whom the links of duty chained +Awhile from this their natal spot. + +One, who is labour's useful tracks + Is proudly eminent, who roams + The providence of humble homes-- +The blue-eyed, fair-haired, friendly Flax: + +Giving himself to cheer and light + The cottier's else o'ershadowing murk, + Filling his hand with cheerful work, +And all his being with delight: + +And one, the loveliest and the last, + For whom they waited day by day, + All through the merry month of May, +Till one-and-thirty days had passed. + +And when, at length, the longed-for noon + Of night arched o'er th' expectant green + The Rose, their sister and their queen-- +Came on the joyous wings of June: + +And when was heard the gladsome sound, + And when was breath'd her beauteous name, + Unnumbered buds, like lamps of flame, +Gleamed from the hedges all around: + +Where she had been, the distant clime, + The orient realm their sceptre sways, + The poet's pen may paint and praise +Hereafter in his simple rhyme. + + +109. The Daisy. + +110. The Wallflower. + + + +THE PROGRESS OF THE ROSE. + +The days of old, the good old days, + Whose misty memories haunt us still, +Demand alike our blame and praise, + And claim their shares of good and ill. + +They had strong faith in things unseen, + But stronger in the things they saw +Revenge for Mercy's pitying mien, + And lordly Right for equal Law. + +'Tis true the cloisters all throughout + The valleys rais'd their peaceful towers, +And their sweet bells ne'er wearied out + In telling of the tranquil hours. + +But from the craggy hills above, + A shadow darken'd o'er the sward; +For there--a vulture to this dove-- + Hung the rude fortress of the lord; + +Whence oft the ravening bird of prey + Descending, to his eyry wild +Bore, with exulting cries, away + The powerless serf's dishonour'd child. + +Then Safety lit with partial beams + But the high-castled peaks of Force, +And Polity revers'd its streams, + And bade them flow but for their Source. + +That Source from which, meandering down, + A thousand streamlets circle now; +For then the monarch's glorious crown + But girt the most rapacious brow. + +But individual Force is dead, + And link'd Opinion late takes birth; +And now a woman's gentle head + Supports the mightiest crown on earth. + +A pleasing type of all the change + Permitted to our eyes to see, +When she herself is free to range + Throughout the realm her rule makes free. + +Not prison'd in a golden cage, + To sigh or sing her lonely state, +A show for youth or doating age, + With idiot eyes to contemplate. + +But when the season sends a thrill + To ev'ry heart that lives and moves, +She seeks the freedom of the hill, + Or shelter of the noontide groves. + +There, happy with her chosen mate, + And circled by her chirping brood, +Forgets the pain of being great + In the mere bliss of being good. + +And thus the festive summer yields + No sight more happy, none so gay, +As when amid her subject-fields + She wanders on from day to day. + +Resembling her, whom proud and fond, + The bard hath sung of--she of old, +Who bore upon her snow-white wand, + All Erin through, the ring of gold. + +Thus, from her castles coming forth, + She wanders many a summer hour, +Bearing the ring of private worth + Upon the silver wand of Power. + +Thus musing, while around me flew + Sweet airs from fancy's amaranth bowers, +Methought, what this fair queen doth do, + Hath yearly done the queen of flowers. + +The beauteous queen of all the flowers, + Whose faintest sigh is like a spell, +Was born in Eden's sinless bowers + Long ere our primal parents fell. + +There in a perfect form she grew, + Nor felt decay, nor tasted death; +Heaven was reflected in her hue, + And heaven's own odours filled her breath. + +And ere the angel of the sword + Drove thence the founders of our race, +They knelt before him, and implor'd + Some relic of that radiant place: + +Some relic that, while time would last, + Should make men weep their fatal sin; +Proof of the glory that was past, + And type of that they yet might win. + +The angel turn'd, and ere his hands + The gates of bliss for ever close, +Pluck'd from the fairest tree that stands + Within heaven's walls--the peerless rose. + +And as he gave it unto them, + Let fall a tear upon its leaves-- +The same celestial liquid gem + We oft perceive on dewy eves. + +Grateful the hapless twain went forth, + The golden portals backward whirl'd, +Then first they felt the biting north, + And all the rigour of this world. + +Then first the dreadful curse had power + To chill the life-streams at their source, +Till e'en the sap within the flower + Grew curdled in its upward course. + +They twin'd their trembling hands across + Their trembling breasts against the drift, +Then sought some little mound of moss + Wherein to lay their precious gift. + +Some little soft and mossy mound, + Wherein the flower might rest till morn; +In vain! God's curse was on the ground, + For through the moss out gleam'd the thorn! + +Out gleam'd the fork`ed plant, as if + The serpent tempter, in his rage, +Had put his tongue in every leaf + To mock them through their pilgrimage. + +They did their best; their hands eras'd + The thorns of greater strength and size; +Then 'mid the softer moss they plac'd + The exiled flower of paradise. + +The plant took root; the beams and showers + Came kindly, and its fair head rear'd; +But lo! around its heaven of flowers + The thorns and moss of earth appear'd. + +Type of the greater change that then + Upon our hapless nature fell, +When the degenerate hearts of men + Bore sin and all the thorns of hell. + +Happy, indeed, and sweet our pain, + However torn, however tost, +If, like the rose, our hearts retain + Some vestige of the heaven we've lost. + +Where she upon this colder sphere + Found shelter first, she there abode; +Her native bowers, unseen were near, + And near her still Euphrates flowed-- + +Brilliantly flow'd; but, ah! how dim, + Compar'd to what its light had been;-- +As if the fiery cherubim + Let pass the tide, but kept its sheen. + +At first she liv'd and reigned alone, + No lily-maidens yet had birth; +No turban'd tulips round her throne + Bow'd with their foreheads to the earth. + +No rival sisters had she yet-- + She with the snowy forehead fringed +With blushes; nor the sweet brunette + Whose cheek the yellow sun has ting'd. + +Nor all the harbingers of May, + Nor all the clustering joys of June: +Uncarpeted the bare earth lay, + Unhung the branches' gay festoon. + +But Nature came in kindly mood, + And gave her kindred of her own, +Knowing full well it is not good + For man or flower to be alone. + +Long in her happy court she dwelt, + In floral games and feasts of mirth, +Until her heart kind wishes felt + To share her joy with all the earth. + +To go from longing land to land + A stateless queen, a welcome guest, +O'er hill and vale, by sea and strand, + From North to South, and East to West. + +And thus it is that every year, + Ere Autumn dons his russet robe, +She calls her unseen charioteer, + And makes her progress through the globe. + +First, sharing in the month-long feast-- + "The Feast of Roses"--in whose light +And grateful joy, the first and least + Of all her subjects reunite. + +She sends her heralds on before: + The bee rings out his bugle bold, +The daisy spreads her marbled floor, + The buttercup her cloth of gold. + +The lark leaps up into the sky, + To watch her coming from afar; +The larger moon descends more nigh, + More lingering lags the morning star. + +From out the villages and towns, + From all of mankind's mix'd abodes, +The people, by the lawns and downs, + Go meet her on the winding roads. + +And some would bear her in their hands, + And some would press her to their breast, +And some would worship where she stands, + And some would claim her as their guest. + +Her gracious smile dispels the gloom + Of many a love-sick girl and boy; +Her very presence in a room + Doth fill the languid air with joy. + +Her breath is like a fragrant tune, + She is the soul of every spot; +Gives nature to the rich saloon, + And splendour to the peasant's cot. + +Her mission is to calm and soothe, + And purely glad life's every stage; +Her garlands grace the brow of youth, + And hide the hollow lines of age. + +But to the poet she belongs, + By immemorial ties of love;-- +Herself a folded book of songs, + Dropp'd from the angel's hands above. + +Then come and make his heart thy home, + For thee it opes, for thee it glows;-- +Type of ideal beauty, come! + Wonder of Nature! queenly Rose! + + + +THE BATH OF THE STREAMS. + +Down unto the ocean, +Trembling with emotion, +Panting at the notion, + See the rivers run-- +In the golden weather, +Tripping o'er the heather, +Laughing all together-- + Madcaps every one. + +Like a troop of girls +In their loosen'd curls, +See, the concourse whirls + Onward wild with glee; +List their tuneful tattle, +Hear their pretty prattle, +How they'll love to battle + With the assailing sea. + +See, the winds pursue them, +See, the willows woo them +See, the lakelets view them + Wistfully afar, +With a wistful wonder +Down the green slopes under, +Wishing, too, to thunder + O'er their prison bar. + +Wishing, too, to wander +By the sea-waves yonder, +There awhile to squander + All their silvery stores, +There awhile forgetting +All their vain regretting +When their foam went fretting + Round the rippling shores. + +Round the rocky region, +Whence their prison'd legion, +Oft and oft besieging, + Vainly sought to break, +Vainly sought to throw them +O'er the vales below them, +Through the clefts that show them + Paths they dare not take. + +But the swift streams speed them +In the might of freedom, +Down the paths that lead them + Joyously along. +Blinding green recesses +With their floating tresses, +Charming wildernesses + With their murmuring song. + +Now the streams are gliding +With a sweet abiding-- +Now the streams are hiding + 'Mid the whispering reeds-- +Now the streams outglancing +With a shy advancing +Naiad-like go dancing + Down the golden meads. + +Down the golden meadows, +Chasing their own shadows-- +Down the golden meadows, + Playing as they run: +Playing with the sedges, +By the water's edges, +Leaping o'er the ledges, + Glist'ning in the sun: + +Streams and streamlets blending, +Each on each attending, +All together wending, + Seek the silver sands; +Like the sisters holding +With a fond enfolding-- +Like to sisters holding + One another's hands. + +Now with foreheads blushing +With a rapturous flushing-- +Now the streams are rushing + In among the waves. +Now in shy confusion, +With a pale suffusion, +Seek the wild seclusion + Of sequestered caves. + +All the summer hours +Hiding in the bowers, +Scattering silver showers + Out upon the strand; +O'er the pebbles crashing, +Through the ripples splashing, +Liquid pearl-wreaths dashing + From each other's hand. + +By yon mossy boulder, +See an ivory shoulder, +Dazzling the beholder, + Rises o'er the blue; +But a moment's thinking, +Sends the Naiad sinking, +With a modest shrinking, + From the gazer's view. + +Now the wave compresses +All their golden tresses-- +Now their sea-green dresses + Float them o'er the tide; +Now with elf-locks dripping +From the brine they're sipping, +With a fairy tripping, + Down the green waves glide. + +Some that scarce have tarried +By the shore are carried +Sea-ward to be married + To the glad gods there: +Triton's horn is playing, +Neptune's steeds are neighing, +Restless with delaying + For a bride so fair. + +See at first the river +How its pale lips quiver, +How its white waves shiver + With a fond unrest; +List how low it sigheth, +See how swift it flieth, +Till at length it lieth + On the ocean's breast. + +Such is Youth's admiring, +Such is Love's desiring, +Such is Hope's aspiring + For the higher goal; +Such is man's condition +Till in heaven's fruition +Ends the mystic mission + Of the eternal soul. + + + +THE FLOWERS OF THE TROPICS. + +"C'est ainsi qu'elle nature a mis, entre les tropiques, la plupart des +fleurs apparentes sur des arbres. J'y en ai vu bien peu dans les +prairies, mais beaucoup dans les forets. Dans ces pays, il faut lever +les yeux en haut pour y voir des fleurs; dans le notre, il faut les +baisser a terre."--SAINT PIERRE, "Etudes de la Nature." + +In the soft sunny regions that circle the waist + Of the globe with a girdle of topaz and gold, +Which heave with the throbbings of life where they're placed, + And glow with the fire of the heart they enfold; +Where to live, where to breathe, seems a paradise dream-- + A dream of some world more elysian than this-- +Where, if Death and if Sin were away, it would seem + Not the foretaste alone, but the fulness of bliss. + +Where all that can gladden the sense and the sight, + Fresh fruitage as cool and as crimson as even; +Where the richness and rankness of Nature unite + To build the frail walls of the Sybarite's heaven. +But, ah! should the heart feel the desolate dearth + Of some purer enjoyment to speed the bright hours, +In vain through the leafy luxuriance of earth + Looks the languid-lit eye for the freshness of flowers. + +No, its glance must be turned from the earth to the sky, + From the clay-rooted grass to the heaven-branching trees; +And there, oh! enchantment for soul and for eye, + Hang blossoms so pure that an angel might seize. +Thus, when pleasure begins from its sweetness to cloy, + And the warm heart grows rank like a soil over ripe, +We must turn from the earth for some promise of joy, + And look up to heaven for a holier type. + +In the climes of the North, which alternately shine, + Now warm with the sunbeam, now white with the snow, +And which, like the breast of the earth they entwine. + Grow chill with its chillness, or glow with its glow, +In those climes where the soul, on more vigorous wing, + Rises soaring to heaven in its rapturous flight, +And, led ever on by the radiance they fling, + Tracketh star after star through infinitude's night. + +How oft doth the seer from his watch-tower on high. + Scan the depths of the heavens with his wonderful glass; +And, like Adam of old, when Earth's creatures went by, + Name the orbs and the sun-lighted spheres as they pass. +How often, when drooping, and weary, and worn, + With fire-throbbing temples and star-dazzled eyes, +Does he turn from his glass at the breaking of morn, + And exchanges for flowers all the wealth of the skies? + +Ah! thus should we mingle the far and the near, + And, while striving to pierce what the Godhead conceals, +From the far heights of Science look down with a fear + To the lowliest truths the same Godhead reveals. +When the rich fruit of Joy glads the heart and the mouth, + Or the bold wing of Thought leads the daring soul forth; +Let us proudly look up as for flowers of the south, + Let us humbly look down as for flowers of the north. + + + +THE YEAR-KING. + +It is the last of all the days, +The day on which the Old Year dies. +Ah! yes, the fated hour is near; +I see upon his snow-white bier +Outstretched the weary wanderer lies, +And mark his dying gaze. + +A thousand visions dark and fair, +Crowd on the old man's fading sight; +A thousand mingled memories throng +The old man's heart, still green and strong; +The heritage of wrong and right +He leaves unto his heir. + +He thinks upon his budding hopes, +The day he stood the world's young king, +Upon his coronation morn, +When diamonds hung on every thorn, +And peeped the pearl flowers of the spring +Adown the emerald slopes. + +He thinks upon his youthful pride, +When in his ermined cloak of snow, +Upon his war-horse, stout and staunch-- +The cataract-crested avalanche-- +He thundered on the rocks below, +With his warriors at his side. + +From rock to rock, through cloven scalp, +By rivers rushing to the sea, +With thunderous sound his army wound +The heaven supporting hills around; +Like that the Man of Destiny +Led down the astonished Alp. + +The bugles of the blast rang out, +The banners of the lightning swung, +The icy spear-points of the pine +Bristled along the advancing line, +And as the winds' 'reveille' rung, +Heavens! how the hills did shout. + +Adown each slippery precipice +Rattled the loosen'd rocks, like balls +Shot from his booming thunder guns, +Whose smoke, effacing stars and suns, +Darkens the stifled heaven, and falls +Far off in arrowy showers of ice. + +Ah! yes, he was a mighty king, +A mighty king, full flushed with youth; +He cared not then what ruin lay +Upon his desolating way; +Not his the cause of God or Truth, +But the brute lust of conquering. + +Nought could resist his mighty will, +The green grass withered where he stood; +His ruthless hands were prompt to seize +Upon the tresses of the trees; +Then shrieked the maidens of the wood, +And the saplings of the hill. + +Nought could resist his mighty will; +For in his ranks rode spectral Death; +The old expired through very fear; +And pined the young, when he came near; +The faintest flutter of his breath +Was sharp enough to kill. + +Nought could resist his mighty will; +The flowers fell dead beneath his tread; +The streams of life, that through the plains +Throb night and day through crystal veins, +With feverish pulses frighten'd fled, +Or curdled, and grew still. + +Nought could resist his mighty will; +On rafts of ice, blue-hued, like steel, +He crossed the broadest rivers o'er +Ah! me, and then was heard no more +The murmur of the peaceful wheel +That turned the peasant's mill. + +But why the evil that attends +On War recall to further view? +Accurs`ed War!--the world too well +Knows what thou art--thou fiend of hell! +The heartless havoc of a few +For their own selfish ends! + +Soon, soon the youthful conqueror +Felt moved, and bade the horrors cease; +Nature resumed its ancient sway, +Warm tears rolled down the cheeks of Day, +And Spring, the harbinger of peace +Proclaimed the fight was o'er. + +Oh! what a change came o'er the world; +The winds, that cut like naked swords, +Shed balm upon the wounds they made; +And they who came the first to aid +The foray of grim Winter's hordes +The flag of truce unfurled. + +Oh! how the song of joy, the sound +Of rapture thrills the leaguered camps +The tinkling showers like cymbals clash +Upon the late leaves of the ash, +And blossoms hang like festal lamps +On all the trees around. + +And there is sunshine, sent to strew +God's cloth of gold, whereon may dance, +To music that harmonious moves, +The link`ed Graces and the Loves, +Making reality romance, +And rare romance even more than true. + +The fields laughed out in dimpling flowers, +The streams' blue eyes flashed bright with smiles; +The pale-faced clouds turned rosy-red, +As they looked down from overhead, +Then fled o'er continents and isles, +To shed their happy tears in showers. + +The youthful monarch's heart grew light +To find what joy good deeds can shed; +To nurse the orphan buds that bent +Over each turf-piled monument, +Wherein the parent flowers lay dead +Who perished in that fight. + +And as he roamed from day to day, +Atoning thus to flower and tree, +Flinging his lavish gold around +In countless yellow flowers, he found, +By gladsome-weeping April's knee, +The modest maiden May. + +Oh! she was young as angels are, +Ere the eternal youth they lead +Gives any clue to tell the hours +They've spent in heaven's elysian bowers; +Ere God before their eyes decreed +The birth-day of some beauteous star. + +Oh! she was fair as are the leaves +Of pale white roses, when the light +Of sunset, through some trembling bough, +Kisses the queen-flower's blushing brow, +Nor leaves it red nor marble white, +But rosy-pale, like April eves. + +Her eyes were like forget-me-nots, +Dropped in the silvery snowdrop's cup, +Or on the folded myrtle buds, +The azure violet of the woods; +Just as the thirsty sun drinks up +The dewy diamonds on the plots. + +And her sweet breath was like the sighs +Breathed by a babe of youth and love; +When all the fragrance of the south +From the cleft cherry of its mouth, +Meets the fond lips that from above +Stoop to caress its slumbering eyes. + +He took the maiden by the hand, +And led her in her simple gown +Unto a hamlet's peaceful scene, +Upraised her standard on the green; +And crowned her with a rosy crown +The beauteous Queen of all the land. + +And happy was the maiden's reign-- +For peace, and mirth, and twin-born love +Came forth from out men's hearts that day, +Their gladsome fealty to pay; +And there was music in the grove, +And dancing on the plain. + +And Labour carolled at his task, +Like the blithe bird that sings and builds +His happy household 'mid the leaves; +And now the fibrous twig he weaves, +And now he sings to her who gilds +The sole horizon he doth ask. + +And Sickness half forgot its pain, +And Sorrow half forgot its grief; +And Eld forgot that it was old, +As if to show the age of gold +Was not the poet's fond belief, +But every year comes back again. + +The Year-King passed along his way: +Rejoiced, rewarded, and content; +He passed to distant lands and new; +For other tasks he had to do; +But wheresoe'er the wanderer went, +He ne'er forgot his darling May. + +He sent her stems of living gold +From the rich plains of western lands, +And purple-gushing grapes from vines +Born of the amorous sun that shines +Where Tagus rolls its golden sands, +Or Guadalete old. + +And citrons from Firenze's fields, +And golden apples from the isles +That gladden the bright southern seas, +True home of the Hesperides: +Which now no dragon guards, but smiles, +The bounteous mother, as she yields. + +And then the king grew old like Lear-- +His blood waxed chill, his beard grew gray; +He changed his sceptre for a staff: +And as the thoughtless children laugh +To see him totter on his way, +He knew his destined hour was near. + +And soon it came; and here he strives, +Outstretched upon his snow-white bier, +To reconcile the dread account-- +How stands the balance, what the amount; +As we shall do with trembling fear +When our last hour arrives. + +Come, let us kneel around his bed, +And pray unto his God and ours +For mercy on his servant here: +Oh, God be with the dying year! +And God be with the happy hours +That died before their sire lay dead! + +And as the bells commingling ring +The New Year in, the Old Year out, +Muffled and sad, and now in peals +With which the quivering belfry reels, +Grateful and hopeful be the shout, +The King is dead!--Long live the King! + + + +THE AWAKING. + +A lady came to a snow-white bier, + Where a youth lay pale and dead: + She took the veil from her widowed head, + And, bending low, in his ear she said: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +She pass'd with a smile to a wild wood near, + Where the boughs were barren and bare; + She tapp'd on the bark with her fingers fair, + And call'd to the leaves that were buried there: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The birds beheld her without a fear, + As she walk'd through the dank-moss'd dells; + She breathed on their downy citadels, + And whisper'd the young in their ivory shells: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +On the graves of the flowers she dropp'd a tear, + But with hope and with joy, like us; + And even as the Lord to Lazarus, + She call'd to the slumbering sweet flowers thus: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +To the lilies that lay in the silver mere, + To the reeds by the golden pond; + To the moss by the rounded marge beyond, + She spoke with her voice so soft and fond: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The violet peep'd, with its blue eye clear, + From under its own gravestone; + For the blessed tidings around had flown, + And before she spoke the impulse was known: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The pale grass lay with its long looks sere + On the breast of the open plain; + She loosened the matted hair of the slain, + And cried, as she filled each juicy vein: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The rush rose up with its pointed spear + The flag, with its falchion broad; + The dock uplifted its shield unawed, + As her voice rung over the quickening sod: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +The red blood ran through the clover near, + And the heath on the hills o'erhead; + The daisy's fingers were tipp'd with red, + As she started to life, when the lady said: + "Awaken! for I am here." + +And the young Year rose from his snow-white bier, + And the flowers from their green retreat; + And they came and knelt at the lady's feet, + Saying all, with their mingled voices sweet: + "O lady! behold us here." + + + +THE RESURRECTION. + +The day of wintry wrath is o'er, +The whirlwind and the storm have pass'd, +The whiten'd ashes of the snow +Enwrap the ruined world no more; +Nor keenly from the orient blow +The venom'd hissings of the blast. + +The frozen tear-drops of despair +Have melted from the trembling thorn; +Hope plumes unseen her radiant wing, +And lo! amid the expectant air, +The trumpet of the angel Spring +Proclaims the resurrection morn. + +Oh! what a wave of gladsome sound +Runs rippling round the shores of space, +As the requicken'd earth upheaves +The swelling bosom of the ground, +And Death's cold pallor, startled, leaves +The deepening roses of her face. + +Up from their graves the dead arise-- +The dead and buried flowers of spring;-- +Up from their graves in glad amaze, +Once more to view the long-lost skies, +Resplendent with the dazzling rays +Of their great coming Lord and King. + +And lo! even like that mightiest one, +In the world's last and awful hour, +Surrounded by the starry seven, +So comes God's greatest work, the sun, +Upborne upon the clouds of heaven, +In pomp, and majesty, and power. + +The virgin snowdrop bends its head +Above its grave in grateful prayer; +The daisy lifts its radiant brow, +With a saint's glory round it shed; +The violet's worth, unhidden now, +Is wafted wide by every air. + +The parent stem reclasps once more +Its long-lost severed buds and leaves; +Once more the tender tendrils twine +Around the forms they clasped of yore +The very rain is now a sign +Great Nature's heart no longer grieves. + +And now the judgment-hour arrives, +And now their final doom they know; +No dreadful doom is theirs whose birth +Was not more stainless than their lives; +'Tis Goodness calls them from the earth, +And Mercy tells them where to go. + +Some of them fly with glad accord, +Obedient to the high behest, +To worship with their fragrant breath +Around the altars of the Lord; +And some, from nothingness and death, +Pass to the heaven of beauty's breast. + +Oh, let the simple fancy be +Prophetic of our final doom; +Grant us, O Lord, when from the sod +Thou deign'st to call us too, that we +Pass to the bosom of our God +From the dark nothing of the tomb! + + + +THE FIRST OF THE ANGELS. + +Hush! hush! through the azure expanse of the sky +Comes a low, gentle sound, 'twixt a laugh and a sigh; +And I rise from my writing, and look up on high, +And I kneel, for the first of God's angels is nigh! + +Oh, how to describe what my rapt eyes descry! +For the blue of the sky is the blue of his eye; +And the white clouds, whose whiteness the snowflakes outvie, +Are the luminous pinions on which he doth fly! + +And his garments of gold gleam at times like the pyre +Of the west, when the sun in a blaze doth expire; +Now tinged like the orange, now flaming with fire! +Half the crimson of roses and purple of Tyre. + +And his voice, on whose accents the angels have hung, +He himself a bright angel, immortal and young, +Scatters melody sweeter the green buds among +Than the poet e'er wrote, or the nightingale sung. + +It comes on the balm-bearing breath of the breeze, +And the odours that later will gladden the bees, +With a life and a freshness united to these, +From the rippling of waters and rustling of trees. + +Like a swan to its young o'er the glass of a pond, +So to earth comes the angel, as graceful and fond; +While a bright beam of sunshine--his magical wand, +Strikes the fields at my feet, and the mountains beyond. + +They waken--they start into life at a bound-- +Flowers climb the tall hillocks, and cover the ground +With a nimbus of glory the mountains are crown'd, +As the rivulets rush to the ocean profound. + +There is life on the earth, there is calm on the sea, +And the rough waves are smoothed, and the frozen are free; +And they gambol and ramble like boys, in their glee, +Round the shell-shining strand or the grass-bearing lea. + +There is love for the young, there is life for the old, +And wealth for the needy, and heat for the cold; +For the dew scatters, nightly, its diamonds untold, +And the snowdrop its silver, the crocus its gold! + +God!--whose goodness and greatness we bless and adore-- +Be Thou praised for this angel--the first of the four-- +To whose charge Thou has given the world's uttermost shore, +To guide it, and guard it, till time is no more! + + + +SPIRIT VOICES. + +There are voices, spirit voices, + Sweetly sounding everywhere, +At whose coming earth rejoices, + And the echoing realms of air, +And their joy and jubilation + Pierce the near and reach the far, +From the rapid world's gyration + To the twinkling of the star. + +One, a potent voice uplifting, + Stops the white cloud on its way, +As it drives with driftless drifting + O'er the vacant vault of day, +And in sounds of soft upbraiding + Calls it down the void inane +To the gilding and the shading + Of the mountain and the plain. + +Airy offspring of the fountains, + To thy destined duty sail, +Seek it on the proudest mountains, + Seek it in the humblest vale; +Howsoever high thou fliest, + How so deep it bids thee go, +Be a beacon to the highest + And a blessing to the low. + +When the sad earth, broken-hearted, + Hath not even a tear to shed, +And her very soul seems parted + For her children lying dead, +Send the streams with warmer pulses + Through that frozen fount of fears, +And the sorrow that convulses, + Soothe and soften down to tears. + +Bear the sunshine and the shadow, + Bear the rain-drop and the snow, +Bear the night-dew to the meadow, + And to hope the promised bow, +Bear the moon, a moving mirror + For her angel face and form, +Bear to guilt the flashing terror + Of the lightning and the storm. + +When thou thus hast done thy duty + On the earth and o'er the sea, +Bearing many a beam of beauty, + Ever bettering what must be, +Thus reflecting heaven's pure splendour + And concealing ruined clay, +Up to God thy spirit render, + And dissolving pass away. + +And with fond solicitation, + Speaks another to the streams-- +Leave your airy isolation, + Quit the cloudy land of dreams, +Break the lonely peak's attraction, + Burst the solemn, silent glen, +Seek the living world of action + And the busy haunts of men. + +Turn the mill-wheel with thy fingers, + Turn the steam-wheel with thy breath, +With thy tide that never lingers + Save the dying fields from death; +Let the swiftness of thy currents + Bear to man the freight-fill'd ship, +And the crystal of thy torrents + Bring refreshment to his lip. + +And when thou, O rapid river, + Thy eternal home dost seek, +When no more the willows quiver + But to touch thy passing cheek, +When the groves no longer greet thee + And the shore no longer kiss, +Let infinitude come meet thee + On the verge of the abyss. + +Other voices seek to win us-- + Low, suggestive, like the rest-- +But the sweetest is within us + In the stillness of the breast; +Be it ours, with fond desiring, + The same harvest to produce, +As the cloud in its aspiring + And the river in its use. + + + + +Centenary Odes. + + + +O'CONNELL. +AUGUST 6TH, 1875. + +Harp of my native land +That lived anew 'neath Carolan's master hand; +Harp on whose electric chords, +The minstrel Moore's melodious words, +Each word a bird that sings, +Borne as if on Ariel's wings, + Touched every tender soul + From listening pole to pole. +Sweet harp, awake once more: +What, though a ruder hand disturbs thy rest, + A theme so high + Will its own worth supply. +As finest gold is ever moulded best: +Or as a cannon on some festive day, +When sea and sky, when winds and waves rejoice, +Out-booms with thunderous voice, +Bids echo speak, and all the hills obey-- + +So let the verse in echoing accents ring, + So proudly sing, + With intermittent wail, +The nation's dead, but sceptred King, +The glory of the Gael. + + +1775. + +Six hundred stormy years have flown, +Since Erin fought to hold her own, +To hold her homes, her altars free, +Within her wall of circling sea. +No year of all those years had fled, +No day had dawned that was not red, +(Oft shed by fratricidal hand), +With the best blood of all the land. +And now, at last, the fight seemed o'er, +The sound of battle pealed no more; +Abject the prostrate people lay, +Nor dared to hope a better day; +An icy chill, a fatal frost, +Left them with all but honour lost, +Left them with only trust in God, +The lands were gone their fathers owned; +Poor pariahs on their native sod. +Their faith was banned, their prophets stoned; +Their temples crowning every height, +Now echoed with an alien rite, +Or silent lay each mouldering pile, +With shattered cross and ruined aisle. +Letters denied, forbade to pray, +And white-winged commerce scared away: +Ah, what can rouse the dormant life +That still survives the stormier strife? +What potent charm can once again +Relift the cross, rebuild the fane? +Free learning from felonious chains, +And give to youth immortal gains? +What signal mercy from on high?-- +Hush! hark! I hear an infant's cry, +The answer of a new-born child, +From Iveragh's far mountain wild. + +Yes, 'tis the cry of a child, feeble and faint in the night, + But soon to thunder in tones that will rouse both tyrants and slaves. +Yes, 'tis the sob of a stream just awake in its source on the height, + But soon to spread as a sea, and rush with the roaring of waves. + +Yes, 'tis the cry of a child affection hastens to still, + But what shall silence ere long the victor voice of the man? +Easy it is for a branch to bar the flow of the rill, + But all the forest would fail where raging the torrent once ran. + +And soon the torrent will run, and the pent-up waters o'erflow, + For the child has risen to a man, and a shout replaces the cry; +And a voice rings out through the world, so wing`ed with Erin's woe, + That charmed are the nations to listen, and the Destinies to reply. + +Boyhood had passed away from that child, predestined by fate + To dry the eyes of his mother, to end the worst of her ills, +And the terrible record of wrong, and the annals of hell and hate, + Had gathered into his breast like a lake in the heart of the hills. + +Brooding over the past, he found himself but a slave, + With manacles forged on his mind, and fetters on every limb; +The land that was life to others, to him was only a grave, + And however the race he ran no victor wreath was for him. + +The fane of learning was closed, shut out was the light of day, + No ray from the sun of science, no brightness from Greece or Rome, +And those who hungered for knowledge, like him, had to fly away, + Where bountiful France threw wide the gates that were shut at home. + +And there he happily learned a lore far better than books, + A lesson he taught for ever, and thundered over the land, +That Liberty's self is a terror, how lovely may be her looks, + If religion is not in her heart, and reverence guide not her hand. + +The steps of honour were barred: it was not for him to climb, + No glorious goal in the future, no prize for the labour of life, +And the fate of him and his people seemed fixed for all coming time + To hew the wood of the helot and draw the waters of strife. + +But the glorious youth returning + Back from France the fair and free, +Rage within his bosom burning, + Such a servile sight to see, + Vowed to heaven it should not be. +"No!" the youthful champion cried, +"Mother Ireland, widowed bride, +If thy freedom can be won +By the service of a son, + Then, behold that son in me. +I will give thee every hour, +Every day shall be thy dower, +In the splendour of the light, +In the watches of the night, +In the shine and in the shower, +I shall work but for thy right." + + +1782-1800. + +A dazzling gleam of evanescent glory, + Had passed away, and all was dark once more, +One golden page had lit the mournful story, + Which ruthless hands with envious rage out-tore. + +One glorious sun-burst, radiant and far-reaching, + Had pierced the cloudy veil dark ages wove, +When full-armed Freedom rose from Grattan's teaching, + As sprang Minerva from the brain of Jove. + +Oh! in the transient light that had outbroken, + How all the land with quickening fire was lit! +What golden words of deathless speech were spoken, + What lightning flashes of immortal wit! + +Letters and arts revived beneath its beaming, + Commerce and Hope outspread their swelling sails, +And with "Free Trade" upon their standard gleaming, + Now feared no foes and dared adventurous gales. + +Across the stream the graceful arch extended, + Above the pile the rounded dome arose, +The soaring spire to heaven's high vault ascended, + The loom hummed loud as bees at evening's close. + +And yet 'mid all this hope and animation, + The people still lay bound in bigot chains, +Freedom that gave some slight alleviation, + Could dare no panacea for their pains. + +Yet faithful to their country's quick uprising, + Like some fair island from volcanic waves, +They shared the triumph though their claims despising, + And hailed the freedom though themselves were slaves. + +But soon had come the final compensation, + Soon would the land one brotherhood have known, +Had not some spell of hellish incantation + The new-formed fane of Freedom overthrown. + +In one brief hour the fair mirage had faded, + No isle of flowers lay glad on ocean's green, +But in its stead, deserted and degraded, + The barren strand of Slavery's shore was seen. + + +1800-1829. + +Yet! 'twas on that barren strand +Sing his praise throughout the world! + Yet, 'twas on that barren strand, +O'er a cowed and broken band, + That his solitary hand + Freedom's flag unfurled. +Yet! 'twas there in Freedom's cause, + Freedom from unequal laws, + Freedom for each creed and class, + For humanity's whole mass, + That his voice outrang;-- + And the nation at a bound, + Stirred by the inspiring sound, + To his side up-sprang. + +Then the mighty work began, +Then the war of thirty years-- +Peaceful war, when words were spears, +And religion led the van. +When O'Connell's voice of power, +Day by day and hour by hour, +Raining down its iron shower, + Laid oppression low, +Till at length the war was o'er, +And Napoleon's conqueror, +Yielded to a mightier foe. + + +1829. + + Into the senate swept the mighty chief, + Like some great ocean wave across the bar + Of intercepting rock, whose jagged reef + But frets the victor whom it cannot mar. + Into the senate his triumphal car + Rushed like a conqueror's through the broken gates + Of some fallen city, whose defenders are + Powerful no longer to resist the fates, +But yield at last to him whom wondering Fame awaits. + + And as "sweet foreign Spenser" might have sung, + Yoked to the car two wing`ed steeds were seen, + With eyes of fire and flashing hoofs outflung, + As if Apollo's coursers they had been. + These were quick Thought and Eloquence, I ween, + Bounding together with impetuous speed, + While overhead there waved a flag of green, + Which seemed to urge still more each flying steed, +Until they reached the goal the hero had decreed. + + There at his feet a captive wretch lay bound, + Hideous, deformed, of baleful countenance, + Whom as his blood-shot eye-balls glared around, + As if to kill with their malignant glance, + I knew to be the fiend Intolerance. + But now no longer had he power to slay, + For Freedom touched him with Ithuriel's lance, + His horrid form revealing by its ray, +And showed how foul a fiend the world could once obey. + + Then followed after him a numerous train, + Each bearing trophies of the field he won: + Some the white wand, and some the civic chain, + Its golden letters glistening in the sun; + Some--for the reign of justice had begun-- + The ermine robes that soon would be the prize + Of spotless lives that all pollution shun, + And some in mitred pomp, with upturned eyes, +And grateful hearts invoked a blessing from the skies. + + +1843-1847. + +A glorious triumph! a deathless deed!-- + Shall the hero rest and his work half done? +Is it enough to enfranchise a creed, + When a nation's freedom may yet be won? +Is it enough to hang on the wall + The broken links of the Catholic chain, +When now one mighty struggle for ALL + May quicken the life in the land again?-- + +May quicken the life, for the land lay dead; + No central fire was a heart in its breast,-- +No throbbing veins, with the life-blood red, + Ran out like rivers to east or west: +Its soul was gone, and had left it clay-- + Dull clay to grow but the grass and the root; +But harvests for Men, ah! where were they?-- + And where was the tree for Liberty's fruit? + +Never till then, in victory's hour, + Had a conqueror felt a joy so sweet, +As when the wand of his well-won power + O'Connell laid at his country's feet. +"No! not for me, nor for mine alone," + The generous victor cried, "Have I fought, +But to see my Eire again on her throne; + Ah, that was my dream and my guiding thought. + +To see my Eire again on her throne, + Her tresses with lilies and shamrocks twined, +Her severed sons to a nation grown, + Her hostile hues in one flag combined; +Her wisest gathered in grave debate, + Her bravest armed to resist the foe: +To see my country 'glorious and great,'-- + To see her 'free,'--to fight I go!" + +And forth he went to the peaceful fight, + And the millions rose at his words of fire, +As the lightning's leap from the depth of the night, + And circle some mighty minster's spire: +Ah, ill had it fared with the hapless land, + If the power that had roused could not restrain? +If the bolts were not grasped in a glowing hand + To be hurled in peals of thunder again? + +And thus the people followed his path, + As if drawn on by a magic spell,-- +By the royal hill and the haunted rath, + By the hallowed spring and the holy well, +By all the shrines that to Erin are dear, + Round which her love like the ivy clings,-- +Still folding in leaves that never grow sere + The cell of the saint and the home of kings. + +And a soul of sweetness came into the land: + Once more was the harp of Erin strung; +Once more on the notes from some master hand + The listening land in its rapture hung. +Once more with the golden glory of words + Were the youthful orator's lips inspired, +Till he touched the heart to its tenderest chords, + And quickened the pulse which his voice had fired. + +And others divinely dowered to teach-- + High souls of honour, pure hearts of fire, +So startled the world with their rhythmic speech, + That it seemed attuned to some unseen lyre. +But the kingliest voice God ever gave man + Words sweeter still spoke than poet hath sung,-- +For a nation's wail through the numbers ran, + And the soul of the Celt exhaled on his tongue. + +And again the foe had been forced to yield; + But the hero at last waxed feeble and old, +Yet he scattered the seed in a fruitful field, + To wave in good time as a harvest of gold. +Then seeking the feet of God's High Priest, + He slept by the soft Ligurian Sea, +Leaving a light, like the Star in the East, + To lead the land that will yet be free. + + +1875. + +A hundred years their various course have run, +Since Erin's arms received her noblest son, +And years unnumbered must in turn depart +Ere Erin fails to fold him to her heart. +He is our boast, our glory, and our pride, +For us he lived, fought, suffered, dared, and died; +Struck off the shackles from each fettered limb, +And all we have of best we owe to him. +If some cathedral, exquisitely fair, +Lifts its tall turrets through the wondering air, +Though art or skill its separate offering brings, +'Tis from O'Connell's heart the structure springs. +If through this city on these festive days, +Halls, streets, and squares are bright with civic blaze +Of glittering chains, white wands, and flowing gowns, +The red-robed senates of a hundred towns, +Whatever rank each special spot may claim, +'Tis from O'Connell's hand their charters came. +If in the rising hopes of recent years +A mighty sound reverberates on our ears, +And myriad voices in one cry unite +For restoration of a ravished right, +'Tis the great echo of that thunder blast, +On Tara pealed or mightier Mullaghmast, +If arts and letters are more widely spread, +A Nile o'erflowing from its fertile bed, +Spreading the rich alluvium whence are given +Harvests for earth and amaranth flowers for heaven; +If Science still, in not unholy walls, +Sets its high chair, and dares unchartered halls, +And still ascending, ever heavenward soars, +While capped Exclusion slowly opes it doors, +It is his breath that speeds the spreading tide, +It is his hand the long-locked door throws wide. +Where'er we turn the same effect we find-- +O'Connell's voice still speaks his country's mind. +Therefore we gather to his birthday feast +Prelate and peer, the people and the priest; +Therefore we come, in one united band, +To hail in him the hero of the land, +To bless his memory, and with loud acclaim +To all the winds, on all the wings of fame +Waft to the listening world the great O'Connell's name. + + + +MOORE. +MAY 28TH, 1879. + +Joy to Ierne, joy, + This day a deathless crown is won, + Her child of song, her glorious son, +Her minstrel boy +Attains his century of fame, + Completes his time-allotted zone, +And proudly with the world's acclaim + Ascends the lyric throne. + +Yes, joy to her whose path so long, + Slow journeying to her realm of rest + O'er many a rugged mountain's crest, +He charmed with his enchanting song: +Like his own princess in the tale, + When he who had her way beguiled + Through many a bleak and desert wild +Until she reached Cashmere's bright vale +Had ceased those notes to play and sing + To which her heart responsive swelled, + She looking up, in him beheld +Her minstrel lover and her king;-- +So Erin now, her journey well-nigh o'er, +Enraptured sees her minstrel king in Moore. + +And round that throne whose light to-day + O'er all the world is cast, +In words though weak, in hues though faint, +Congenial fancy rise and paint + The spirits of the past +Who here their homage pay-- + Those who his youthful muse inspired, + Those who his early genius fired +To emulate their lay: +And as in some phantasmal glass +Let the immortal spirits pass, +Let each renew the inspiring strain, +And fire the poet's soul again. + +First there comes from classic Greece, +Beaming love and breathing peace, +With her pure, sweet smiling face, +The glory of the Aeolian race, +Beauteous Sappho, violet-crowned, +Shedding joy and rapture round: +In her hand a harp she bears, +Parent of celestial airs, +Love leaps trembling from each wire, +Every chord a string of fire:-- +How the poet's heart doth beat, +How his lips the notes repeat, +Till in rapture borne along, +The Sapphic lute, the lyrist's song, +Blend in one delicious strain, +Never to divide again. + +And beside the Aeolian queen +Great Alcaeus' form is seen: +He takes up in voice more strong +The dying cadence of the song, +And on loud resounding strings +Hurls his wrath on tyrant kings:-- +Like to incandescent coal +On the poet's kindred soul +Fall these words of living flame, +Till their songs become the same,-- +The same hate of slavery's night, +The same love of freedom's light, +Scorning aught that stops its way, +Come the black cloud whence it may, +Lift alike the inspir`ed song, +And the liquid notes prolong. + +Carolling a livelier measure +Comes the Teian bard of pleasure, +Round his brow where joy reposes +Radiant love enwreaths his roses, +Rapture in his verse is ringing, +Soft persuasion in his singing:-- +'Twas the same melodious ditty +Moved Polycrates to pity, +Made that tyrant heart surrender +Captive to a tone so tender: +To the younger bard inclining, +Round his brow the roses twining, +First the wreath in red wine steeping, +He his cithern to his keeping +Yields, its glorious fate foreseeing, +From her chains a nation freeing, +Fetters new around it flinging +In the flowers of his own singing. + +But who is this that from the misty cloud + Of immemorial years, +Wrapped in the vesture of his vaporous shroud + With solemn steps appears? +His head with oak-leaves and with ivy crowned + Lets fall its silken snow, +While the white billows of his beard unbound + Athwart his bosom flow: +Who is this venerable form +Whose hands, prelusive of the storm + Across his harp-strings play-- +That harp which, trembling in his hand, +Impatient waits its lord's command + To pour the impassioned lay? +Who is it comes with reverential hail + To greet the bard who sang his country best +'Tis Ossian--primal poet of the Gael-- + The Homer of the West. + +He sings the heroic tales of old + When Ireland yet was free, +Of many a fight and foray bold, + And raid beyond the sea. + +Of all the famous deeds of Fin, + And all the wiles of Mave, +Now thunders 'mid the battle's din, + Now sobs beside the wave. + +That wave empurpled by the sword + The hero used too well, +When great Cuchullin held the ford, + And fair Ferdiah fell. + +And now his prophet eye is cast + As o'er a boundless plain; +He sees the future as the past, + And blends them in his strain. + +The Red-Branch Knights their flags unfold + When danger's front appears, +The sunburst breaks through clouds of gold + To glorify their spears. + +But, ah! a darker hour drew nigh, + The hour of Erin's woe, +When she, though destined not to die, + Lay prostrate 'neath the foe. + +When broke were all the arms she bore, + And bravely bore in vain, +Till even her harp could sound no more + Beneath the victor's chain. + +Ah! dire constraint, ah! cruel wrong, + To fetter thus its chord, +But well they knew that Ireland's song + Was keener than her sword. + +That song would pierce where swords would fail, + And o'er the battle's din, +The sweet, sad music of the Gael + A peaceful victory win. + +Long was the trance, but sweet and low + The harp breathed out again +Its speechless wail, its wordless woe, + In Carolan's witching strain. + +Until at last the gift of words + Denied to it so long, +Poured o'er the now enfranchised chords + The articulate light of song. + +Poured the bright light from genius won, + That woke the harp's wild lays; +Even as that statue which the sun + Made vocal with his rays. + +Thus Ossian in disparted dream + Outpoured the varied lay, +But now in one united stream + His rapture finds its way:-- + +"Yes, in thy hands, illustrious son, + The harp shall speak once more, +Its sweet lament shall rippling run + From listening shore to shore. + +Till mighty lands that lie unknown + Far in the fabled west, +And giant isles of verdure thrown + Upon the South Sea's breast. + +And plains where rushing rivers flow-- + Fit emblems of the free-- +Shall learn to know of Ireland's woe, + And Ireland's weal through thee." + +'Twas thus he sang, +And while tumultuous plaudits rang + From the immortal throng, +In the younger minstrel's hand +He placed the emblem of the land-- + The harp of Irish song. + +Oh! what dulcet notes are heard. +Never bird +Soaring through the sunny air +Like a prayer +Borne by angel's hands on high +So entranced the listening sky +As his song-- +Soft, pathetic, joyous, strong, +Rising now in rapid flight +Out of sight +Like a lark in its own light, +Now descending low and sweet +To our feet, +Till the odours of the grass +With the light notes as they pass +Blend and meet: +All that Erin's memory guards +In her heart, +Deeds of heroes, songs of bards, +Have their part. + +Brian's glories reappear, +Fionualla's song we hear, +Tara's walls resound again +With a more inspir`ed strain, +Rival rivers meet and join, +Stately Shannon blends with Boyne; +While on high the storm-winds cease +Heralding the arch of peace. + +And all the bright creations fair + That 'neath his master-hand awake, +Some in tears and some in smiles, +Like Nea in the summer isles, + Or Kathleen by the lonely lake, +Round his radiant throne repair: +Nay, his own Peri of the air + Now no more disconsolate, + Gives in at Fame's celestial gate +His passport to the skies-- + The gift to heaven most dear, + His country's tear. +From every lip the glad refrain doth rise, +"Joy, ever joy, his glorious task is done, +The gates are passed and Fame's bright heaven is won!" + +Ah! yes, the work, the glorious work is done, +And Erin crowns to-day her brightest son, +Around his brow entwines the victor bay, +And lives herself immortal in his lay-- +Leads him with honour to her highest place, +For he had borne his more than mother's name +Proudly along the Olympic lists of fame +When mighty athletes struggled in the race. +Byron, the swift-souled spirit, in his pride +Paused to cheer on the rival by his side, +And Lycidas, so long +Lost in the light of his own dazzling song, +Although himself unseen, +Gave the bright wreath that might his own have been +To him whom 'mid the mountain shepherd throng, +The minstrels of the isles, +When Adonais died so fair and young, +Ierne sent from out her green defiles +"The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, +And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue." +And he who sang of Poland's kindred woes, +And Hope's delicious dream, +And all the mighty minstrels who arose +In that auroral gleam +That o'er our age a blaze of glory threw +Which Shakspere's only knew-- +Some from their hidden haunts remote, +Like him the lonely hermit of the hills, +Whose song like some great organ note +The whole horizon fills. +Or the great Master, he whose magic hand, +Wielding the wand from which such wonder flows, +Transformed the lineaments of a rugged land, +And left the thistle lovely as the rose. +Oh! in a concert of such minstrelsy, +In such a glorious company, +What pride for Ireland's harp to sound, +For Ireland's son to share, +What pride to see him glory-crowned, +And hear amid the dazzling gleam +Upon the rapt and ravished air +Her harp still sound supreme! + +Glory to Moore, eternal be the glory + That here we crown and consecrate to-day, +Glory to Moore, for he has sung our story + In strains whose sweetness ne'er can pass away. + +Glory to Moore, for he has sighed our sorrow + In such a wail of melody divine, +That even from grief a passing joy we borrow, + And linger long o'er each lamenting line. + +Glory to Moore, that in his songs of gladness + Which neither change nor time can e'er destroy, +Though mingled oft with some faint sigh of sadness, + He sings his country's rapture and its joy. + +What wit like his flings out electric flashes + That make the numbers sparkle as they run: +Wit that revives dull history's Dead-sea ashes, + And makes the ripe fruit glisten in the sun? + +What fancy full of loveliness and lightness + Has spread like his as at some dazzling feast, +The fruits and flowers, the beauty and the brightness, + And all the golden glories of the East? + +Perpetual blooms his bower of summer roses, + No winter comes to turn his green leaves sere, +Beside his song-stream where the swan reposes + The bulbul sings as by the Bendemeer. + +But back returning from his flight with Peris, + Above his native fields he sings his best, +Like to the lark whose rapture never wearies, + When poised in air he singeth o'er his nest. + +And so we rank him with the great departed, + The kings of song who rule us from their urns, +The souls inspired, the natures noble hearted, + And place him proudly by the side of Burns. + +And as not only by the Calton Mountain, + Is Scotland's bard remembered and revered, +But whereso'er, like some o'erflowing fountain, + Its hardy race a prosperous path has cleared. + +There 'mid the roar of newly-rising cities, + His glorious name is heard on every tongue, +There to the music of immortal ditties, + His lays of love, his patriot songs are sung. + +So not alone beside that bay of beauty + That guards the portals of his native town +Where like two watchful sentinels on duty, + Howth and Killiney from their heights look down. + +But wheresoe'er the exiled race hath drifted, + By what far sea, what mighty stream beside, +There shall to-day the poet's name be lifted, + And Moore proclaimed its glory and its pride: + +There shall his name be held in fond memento, + There shall his songs resound for evermore, +Whether beside the golden Sacramento, + Or where Niagara's thunder shakes the shore. + +For all that's bright indeed must fade and perish, + And all that's sweet when sweetest not endure, +Before the world shall cease to love and cherish + The wit and song, the name and fame of MOORE. + + + + +Miscellaneous Poems. + + + +THE SPIRIT OF THE SNOW. + + The night brings forth the morn-- + Of the cloud is lightning born; +From out the darkest earth the brightest roses grow. + Bright sparks from black flints fly, + And from out a leaden sky +Comes the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow. + + The wondering air grows mute, + As her pearly parachute +Cometh slowly down from heaven, softly floating to and fro; + And the earth emits no sound, + As lightly on the ground +Leaps the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow. + + At the contact of her tread, + The mountain's festal head, +As with chaplets of white roses, seems to glow; + And its furrowed cheek grows white + With a feeling of delight, +At the presence of the Spirit of the Snow. + + As she wendeth to the vale, + The longing fields grow pale-- +The tiny streams that vein them cease to flow; + And the river stays its tide + With wonder and with pride, +To gaze upon the Spirit of the Snow. + + But little doth she deem + The love of field or stream-- +She is frolicsome and lightsome as the roe; + She is here and she is there, + On the earth or in the air, +Ever changing, floats the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now a daring climber, she + Mounts the tallest forest tree-- +Out along the giddy branches doth she go; + And her tassels, silver-white, + Down swinging through the night, +Mark the pillow of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now she climbs the mighty mast, + When the sailor boy at last +Dreams of home in his hammock down below + There she watches in his stead + Till the morning sun shines red, +Then evanishes the Spirit of the Snow. + + Or crowning with white fire. + The minster's topmost spire +With a glory such as sainted foreheads show; + She teaches fanes are given + Thus to lift the heart to heaven, +There to melt like the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now above the loaded wain, + Now beneath the thundering train, +Doth she hear the sweet bells tinkle and the snorting engine blow; + Now she flutters on the breeze, + Till the branches of the trees +Catch the tossed and tangled tresses of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Now an infant's balmy breath + Gives the spirit seeming death, +When adown her pallid features fair Decay's damp dew-drops flow; + Now again her strong assault + Can make an army halt, +And trench itself in terror 'gainst the Spirit of the Snow. + + At times with gentle power, + In visiting some bower, +She scarce will hide the holly's red, the blackness of the sloe; + But, ah! her awful might, + When down some Alpine height +The hapless hamlet sinks before the Spirit of the Snow. + + On a feather she floats down + The turbid rivers brown, +Down to meet the drifting navies of the winter-freighted floe; + Then swift o'er the azure walls + Of the awful waterfalls, +Where Niagara leaps roaring, glides the Spirit of the Snow. + + With her flag of truce unfurled, + She makes peace o'er all the world-- +Makes bloody battle cease awhile, and war's unpitying woe; + Till, its hollow womb within, + The deep dark-mouthed culverin +Encloses, like a cradled child, the Spirit of the Snow. + + She uses in her need + The fleetly-flying steed-- +Now tries the rapid reindeer's strength, and now the camel slow; + Or, ere defiled by earth, + Unto her place of birth, +Returns upon the eagle's wing the Spirit of the Snow. + + Oft with pallid figure bowed, + Like the Banshee in her shroud, +Doth the moon her spectral shadow o'er some silent gravestone throw; + Then moans the fitful wail, + And the wanderer grows pale, +Till at morning fades the phantom of the Spirit of the Snow. + + In her ermine cloak of state + She sitteth at the gate +Of some winter-prisoned princess in her palace by the Po; + Who dares not to come forth + Till back unto the North +Flies the beautiful besieger--the Spirit of the Snow. + + In her spotless linen hood, + Like the other sisterhood, +She braves the open cloister when the psalm sounds sweet and low; + When some sister's bier doth pass + From the minster and the Mass, +Soon to sink into the earth, like the Spirit of the Snow. + + But at times so full of joy, + She will play with girl and boy, +Fly from out their tingling fingers, like white fireballs on the foe; + She will burst in feathery flakes, + And the ruin that she makes +Will but wake the crackling laughter of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Or in furry mantle drest, + She will fondle on her breast +The embryo buds awaiting the near Spring's mysterious throe; + So fondly that the first + Of the blossoms that outburst +Will be called the beauteous daughter of the Spirit of the Snow. + + Ah! would that we were sure + Of hearts so warmly pure, +In all the winter weather that this lesser life must know; + That when shines the Sun of Love + From the warmer realm above, +In its light we may dissolve, like the Spirit of the Snow. + + + +TO THE BAY OF DUBLIN. + +My native Bay, for many a year +I've lov'd thee with a trembling fear, +Lest thou, though dear and very dear, + And beauteous as a vision, +Shouldst have some rival far away, +Some matchless wonder of a bay, +Whose sparkling waters ever play + 'Neath azure skies elysian. + +'Tis Love, methought, blind Love that pours +The rippling magic round these shores, +For whatsoever Love adores + Becomes what Love desireth: +'Tis ignorance of aught beside +That throws enchantment o'er the tide, +And makes my heart respond with pride + To what mine eye admireth, + +And thus, unto our mutual loss, +Whene'er I paced the sloping moss +Of green Killiney, or across + The intervening waters, +Up Howth's brown sides my feet would wend, +To see thy sinuous bosom bend, +Or view thine outstretch'd arms extend + To clasp thine islet daughters; + +Then would this spectre of my fear +Beside me stand--How calm and clear +Slept underneath, the green waves, near + The tide-worn rocks' recesses; +Or when they woke, and leapt from land, +Like startled sea-nymphs, hand-in-hand, +Seeking the southern silver strand + With floating emerald tresses: + +It lay o'er all, a moral mist, +Even on the hills, when evening kissed +The granite peaks to amethyst, + I felt its fatal shadow: +It darkened o'er the brightest rills, +It lowered upon the sunniest hills, +And hid the wing`ed song that fills + The moorland and the meadow. + +But now that I have been to view +All even Nature's self can do, +And from Gaeta's arch of blue + Borne many a fond memento; +And from each fair and famous scene, +Where Beauty is, and Power hath been, +Along the golden shores between + Misenum and Sorrento: + +I can look proudly in thy face, +Fair daughter of a hardier race, +And feel thy winning well-known grace, + Without my old misgiving; +And as I kneel upon thy strand, +And kiss thy once unvalued hand, +Proclaim earth holds no lovelier land, + Where life is worth the living. + + + +TO ETHNA. + + First loved, last loved, best loved of all I've loved! + Ethna, my boyhood's dream, my manhood's light, + Pure angel spirit, in whose light I've moved, + Full many a year, along life's darksome night! + Thou wert my star, serenely shining bright + Beyond youth's passing clouds and mists obscure + Thou wert the power that kept my spirit white, + My soul unsoiled, my heart untouched and pure. +Thine was the light from heaven that ever must endure. + + Purest, and best, and brightest, no mishap, + No chance, or change can break our mutual ties; + My heart lies spread before thee like a map, + Here roll the tides, and there the mountains rise; + Here dangers frown and there hope's streamlet flies, + And golden promontories cleave the main: + And I have looked into thy lustrous eyes, + And saw the thought thou couldst not all restrain, +A sweet, soft, sympathetic pity for my pain! + + Dearest, and best, I dedicate to thee, + From this hour forth, my hopes, my dreams, my cares, + All that I am, and all I e'er may be, + Youth's clustering locks, and age's thin white hairs; + Thou by my side, fair vision, unawares-- + Sweet saint--shalt guard me as with angel's wings; + To thee shall rise the morning's hopeful prayers, + The evening hymns, the thoughts that midnight brings, +The worship that like fire out of the warm heart springs. + + Thou wilt be with me through the struggling day, + Thou wilt be with me through the pensive night, + Thou wilt be with me, though far, far away + Some sad mischance may snatch you from my sight, + In grief, in pain, in gladness, in delight, + In every thought thy form shall bear a part, + In every dream thy memory shall unite, + Bride of my soul! and partner of my heart! +Till from the dreadful bow flieth the fatal dart! + + Am I deceived? and do I pine and faint + For worth that only dwells in heaven above, + And if thou'rt not the Ethna that I paint, + Then thou art not the Ethna that I love; + If thou art not as gentle as the dove, + And good as thou art beautiful, the tooth + Of venomed serpent will not deadlier prove + Than that dark revelation; but in sooth, +Ethna, I wrong thee, dearest, for thy name is TRUTH. + + + +"NOT KNOWN." + +On receiving through the Post-Office a Returned Letter from an old +residence, marked on the envelope, "Not Known." + +A beauteous summer-home had I + As e'er a bard set eyes on-- +A glorious sweep of sea and sky, + Near hills and far horizon. +Like Naples was the lovely bay, + The lovely hill like Rio-- +And there I lived for many a day + In Campo de Estio. + +It seemed as if the magic scene + No human skill had planted; +The trees remained for ever green, + As if they were enchanted: +And so I said to Sweetest-eyes, + My dear, I think that we owe +To fairy hands this paradise + Of Campo de Estio. + +How swiftly flew the hours away! + I read and rhymed and revelled; +In interchange of work and play, + I built, and drained, and levelled; +"The Pope," so "happy," days gone by + (Unlike our ninth Pope Pio), +Was far less happy then than I + In Campo de Estio. + +For children grew in that sweet place, + As in the grape wine gathers-- +Their mother's eyes in each bright face, + In each light heart, their father's: +Their father, who by some was thought + A literary 'leo,' +Ne'er dreamed he'd be so soon forgot + In Campo de Estio. + +But so it was:--Of hope bereft, + A year had scarce gone over, +Since he that sweetest place had left, + And gone--we'll say--to Dover, +When letters came where he had flown. + Returned him from the "P. O.," +On which was writ, O Heavens! "NOT KNOWN + IN CAMPO DE ESTIO!" + +"Not known" where he had lived so long, + A "cintra" home created, +Where scarce a shrub that now is strong + But had its place debated; +Where scarce a flower that now is shown, + But shows his care: O Dio! +And now to be described, "Not known + In Campo de Estio." + +That pillar from the Causeway brought-- + This fern from Connemara-- +That pine so long and widely sought-- + This Cedrus deodara-- +That bust (if Shakespeare's doth survive, + And busts had brains and 'brio'), +Might keep his name at least alive + In Campo de Estio. + +When Homer went from place to place, + The glorious siege reciting +(Of course I presuppose the case + Of reading and of writing), +I've little doubt the Bard divine + His letters got from Scio, +Inscribed "Not known," Ah! me, like mine + From Campo de Estio. + +The poet, howsoe'er inspired, + Must brave neglect and danger; +When Philip Massinger expired, + The death-list said "a stranger!" +A stranger! yes, on earth, but let + The poet sing 'laus Deo'!-- +Heaven's glorious summer waits him yet-- + God's "Campo de Estio." + + + +THE LAY MISSIONER. + + Had I a wish--'twere this, that heaven would make + My heart as strong to imitate as love, + That half its weakness it could leave, and take + Some spirit's strength, by which to soar above, + A lordly eagle mated with a dove. + Strong-will and warm affection, these be mine; + Without the one no dreams has fancy wove, + Without the other soon these dreams decline, +Weak children of the heart, which fade away and pine! + + Strong have I been in love, if not in will; + Affections crowd and people all the past, + And now, even now, they come and haunt me still, + Even from the graves where once my hopes were cast. + But not with spectral features--all aghast-- + Come they to fright me; no, with smiles and tears, + And winding arms, and breasts that beat as fast + As once they beat in boyhood's opening years, +Come the departed shades, whose steps my rapt soul hears. + + Youth has passed by, its first warm flush is o'er, + And now, 'tis nearly noon; yet unsubdued + My heart still kneels and worships, as of yore, + Those twin-fair shapes, the Beautiful and Good! + Valley and mountain, sky and stream, and wood, + And that fair miracle, the human face, + And human nature in its sunniest mood, + Freed from the shade of all things low and base,-- +These in my heart still hold their old accustom'd place. + + 'Tis not with pride, but gratitude, I tell + How beats my heart with all its youthful glow, + How one kind act doth make my bosom swell, + And down my cheeks the sweet, warm, glad tears flow. + Enough of self, enough of me you know, + Kind reader, but if thou wouldst further wend, + With me, this wilderness of weak words thro', + Let me depict, before the journey end, +One whom methinks thou'lt love, my brother and my friend. + + Ah! wondrous is the lot of him who stands + A Christian Priest, with a Christian fane, + And binds with pure and consecrated hands, + Round earth and heaven, a festal, flower chain; + Even as between the blue arch and the main, + A circling western ring of golden light + Weds the two worlds, or as the sunny rain + Of April makes the cloud and clay unite, +Thus links the Priest of God the dark world and the bright. + + All are not priests, yet priestly duties may + And should be all men's: as a common sight + We view the brightness of a summer's day, + And think 'tis but its duty to be bright; + But should a genial beam of warming light + Suddenly break from out a wintry sky, + With gratitude we own a new delight, + Quick beats the heart and brighter beams the eye, +And as a boon we hail the splendour from on high. + + 'Tis so with men, with those of them at least + Whose hearts by icy doubts are chill'd and torn; + They think the virtues of a Christian Priest + Something professional, put on and worn + Even as the vestments of a Sabbath morn: + But should a friend or act or teach as he, + Then is the mind of all its doubting shorn, + The unexpected goodness that they see +Takes root, and bears its fruit, as uncoerced and free! + + One I have known, and haply yet I know, + A youth by baser passions undefiled, + Lit by the light of genius and the glow + Which real feeling leaves where once it smiled; + Firm as a man, yet tender as a child; + Armed at all points by fantasy and thought, + To face the true or soar amid the wild; + By love and labour, as a good man ought, +Ready to pay the price by which dear truth is bought! + + 'Tis not with cold advice or stern rebuke, + With formal precept, or wit face demure, + But with the unconscious eloquence of look, + Where shines the heart so loving and so pure: + 'Tis these, with constant goodness, that allure + All hearts to love and imitate his worth. + Beside him weaker natures feel secure, + Even as the flower beside the oak peeps forth, +Safe, though the rain descends, and blows the biting North! + + Such is my friend, and such I fain would be, + Mild, thoughtful, modest, faithful, loving, gay, + Correct, not cold, nor uncontroll'd though free, + But proof to all the lures that round us play, + Even as the sun, that on his azure way + Moveth with steady pace and lofty mien, + Though blushing clouds, like syrens, woo his stay, + Higher and higher through the pure serene, +Till comes the calm of eve and wraps him from the scene. + + + +THE SPIRIT OF THE IDEAL. + +Sweet sister spirits, ye whose starlight tresses + Stream on the night-winds as ye float along, +Missioned with hope to man--and with caresses + +To slumbering babes--refreshment to the strong-- + And grace the sensuous soul that it's arrayed in: +As the light burden of melodious song + +Weighs down a poet's words;--as an o'erladen + Lily doth bend beneath its own pure snow; +Or with its joy, the free heart of a maiden:-- + +Thus, I behold your outstretched pinions grow + Heavy with all the priceless gifts and graces +God through thy ministration doth bestow. + +Do ye not plant the rose on youthful faces? + And rob the heavens of stars for Beauty's eyes? +Do ye not fold within love's pure embraces + +All that Omnipotence doth yet devise + For human bliss, or rapture superhuman-- +Heaven upon earth, and earth still in the skies? + +Do ye not sow the fruitful heart of woman + With tenderest charities and faith sincere, +To feed man's sterile soul and to illumine + +His duller eyes, that else might settle here, + With the bright promise of a purer region-- +A starlight beacon to a starry sphere? + +Are they not all thy children, that bright legion-- + Of aspirations, and all hopeful sighs +That in the solemn train of grave Religion + +Strew heavenly flowers before man's longing eyes, + And make him feel, as o'er life's sea he wendeth, +The far-off odorous airs of Paradise?-- + +Like to the breeze some flowery island sendeth + Unto the seaman, ere its bowers are seen, +Which tells him soon his weary wandering endeth-- + +Soon shall he rest, in bosky shades of green, + By daisied meadows prankt with dewy flowers, +With ever-running rivulets between. + +These are thy tasks, my sisters--these the powers + God in his goodness gives into thy hands:-- +'Tis from thy fingers fall the diamond showers + +Of budding Spring, and o'er the expectant lands + June's odorous purple and rich Autumn's gold: +And even when needful Winter wide expands + +His fallow wings, and winds blow sharp and cold + From the harsh east, 'tis thine, o'er all the plain, +The leafless woodlands and the unsheltered wold, + +Gently to drop the flakes of feathery rain-- + Heaven's warmest down--around the slumbering seeds, +And o'er the roots the frost-blanched counterpane. + +What though man's careless eye but little heeds + Even the effects, much less the remoter cause, +Still, in the doing of beneficent deeds-- + +By God and his Vicegerent Nature's laws-- + Ever a compensating joy is found. +Think ye the rain-drop heedeth if it draws + +Rankness as well as Beauty from the ground? + Or that the sullen wind will deign to wake +Only Aeolian melodies of sound-- + +And not the stormy screams that make men quake + Thus do ye act, my sisters; thus ye do +Your cheerful duty for the doing's sake-- + +Not unrewarded surely--not when you + See the successful issue of your charms, +Bringing the absent back again to view-- + +Giving the loved one to the lover's arms-- + Smoothing the grassy couch in weary age-- +Hushing in death's great calm a world's alarms. + +I, I alone upon the earth's vast stage + Am doomed to act an unrequited part-- +I, the unseen preceptress of the sage-- + +I, whose ideal form doth win the heart + Of all whom God's vocation hath assigned +To wear the sacred vesture of high Art-- + +To pass along the electric sparks of mind + From age to age, from race to race, until +The expanding truth encircles all mankind. + +What without me were all the poet's skill?-- + Dead, sensuous form without the quickening soul. +What without me the instinctive aim of will?-- + +A useless magnet pointing to no pole. + What the fine ear and the creative hand? +Most potent spirits free from man's control. + +I, THE IDEAL, by the poet stand + When all his soul o'erflows with holy fire, +When currents of the beautiful and grand + +Run glittering down along each burning wire + Until the heart of the great world doth feel +The electric shock of his God-kindled lyre:-- + +Then rolls the thunderous music peal on peal, + Or in the breathless after-pause, a strain +Simpler and sweeter through the hush doth steal-- + +Like to the pattering drops of summer rain + Or rustling grass, when fragrance fills the air +And all the groves are vocal once again: + +Whatever form, whatever shape I bear, + The Spirit of high Impulse, and the Soul +Of all conceptions beautiful and rare, + +Am I; who now swift spurning all control, + On rapid wings--the Ariel of the Muse-- +Dart from the dazzling centre to the pole; + +Now in the magic mimicry of hues + Such as surround God's golden throne, descend +In Titian's skies the boundaries to confuse + +Betwixt earth's heaven and heaven's own heaven to blend + In Raphael's forms the human and divine, +Where spirit dawns, and matter seems to end. + +Again on wings of melody, so fine + They mock the sight, but fall upon the ear +Like tuneful rose-leaves at the day's decline-- + +And with the music of a happier sphere + Entrance some master of melodious sound, +Till startled men the hymns of angels hear. + +Happy for me when, in the vacant round + Of barren ages, one great steadfast soul +Faithful to me and to his art is found. + +But, ah! my sisters, with my grief condole; + Join in my sorrows and respond my sighs; +And let your sobs the funeral dirges toll; + +Weep those who falter in the great emprise-- + Who, turning off upon some poor pretence, +Some worthless guerdon or some paltry prize, + +Down from the airy zenith through the immense + Sink to the low expedients of an hour, +And barter soul for all the slough of sense,-- + +Just when the mind had reached its regal power, + And fancy's wing its perfect plume unfurl'd,-- +Just when the bud of promise in the flower + +Of all completeness opened on the world-- + When the pure fire that heaven itself outflung +Back to its native empyrean curled, + +Like vocal incense from a censer swung:-- + Ah, me! to be subdued when all seemed won-- +That I should fly when I would fain have clung. + +Yet so it is,--our radiant course is run;-- + Here we must part, the deathless lay unsung, +And, more than all, the deathless deed undone. + + + +RECOLLECTIONS. + +Ah! summer time, sweet summer scene, + When all the golden days, + Linked hand-in-hand, like moonlit fays, +Danced o'er the deepening green. + +When, from the top of Pelier[111] down + We saw the sun descend, + With smiles that blessings seemed to send +To our near native town. + +And when we saw him rise again + High o'er the hills at morn-- + God's glorious prophet daily born +To preach good will to men-- + +Good-will and peace to all between + The gates of night and day-- + Join with me, love, and with me say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +Sweet summer time, true age of gold, + When hand-in-hand we went + Slow by the quickening shrubs, intent +To see the buds unfold: + +To trace new wild flowers in the grass, + New blossoms on the bough, + And see the water-lilies now +Rise o'er the liquid glass. + +When from the fond and folding gale + The scented briar I pulled, + Or for thy kindred bosom culled +The lily of the vale;-- + +Thou without whom were dark the green, + The golden turned to gray, + Join with me, love, and with me say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +Sweet summer time, delight's brief reign, + Thou hast one memory still, + Dearer than ever tree or hill +Yet stretched along life's plain. + +Stranger than all the wond'rous whole, + Flowers, fields, and sunset skies-- + To see within our infant's eyes +The awakening of the soul. + +To see their dear bright depths first stirred + By the far breath of thought, + To feel our trembling hearts o'erfraught +With rapture when we heard + +Her first clear laugh, which might have been + A cherub's laugh at play-- + Ah! love, thou canst but join and say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +Sweet summer time, sweet summer days, + One day I must recall; + One day the brightest of them all, +Must mark with special praise. + +'Twas when at length in genial showers + The spring attained its close; + And June with many a myriad rose +Incarnadined the bowers: + +Led by the bright and sun-warm air, + We left our indoor nooks; + Thou with my paper and my books, +And I thy garden chair; + +Crossed the broad, level garden-walks, + With countless roses lined; + And where the apple still inclined +Its blossoms o'er the box, + +Near to the lilacs round the pond, + In its stone ring hard by + We took our seats, where save the sky, +And the few forest trees beyond + +The garden wall, we nothing saw, + But flowers and blossoms, and we heard + Nought but the whirring of some bird, +Or the rooks' distant, clamorous caw. + +And in the shade we saw the face + Of our dear infant sleeping near, + And thou wert by to smile and hear, +And speak with innate truth and grace. + +There through the pleasant noontide hours + My task of echoed song I sung; + Turning the golden southern tongue +Into the iron ore of ours! + +'Twas the great Spanish master's pride, + The story of the hero proved; + 'Twas how the Moorish princess loved, +And how the firm Fernando died.[112] + +O happiest season ever seen, + O day, indeed the happiest day; + Join with me, love, and with me say-- +Sweet summer time and scene. + +One picture more before I close + Fond Memory's fast dissolving views; + One picture more before I lose +The radiant outlines as they rose. + +'Tis evening, and we leave the porch, + And for the hundredth time admire + The rhododendron's cones of fire +Rise round the tree, like torch o'er torch. + +And for the hundredth time point out + Each favourite blossom and perfume-- + If the white lilac still doth bloom, +Or the pink hawthorn fadeth out: + +And by the laurell'd wall, and o'er + The fields of young green corn we've gone; + And by the outer gate, and on +To our dear friend's oft-trodden door. + +And there in cheerful talk we stay, + Till deepening twilight warns us home; + Then once again we backward roam +Calmly and slow the well-known way-- + +And linger for the expected view-- + Day's dying gleam upon the hill; + Or listen for the whip-poor-will,[113] +Or the too seldom shy cuckoo. + +At home the historic page we glean, + And muse, and hope, and praise, and pray-- + Join with me, love, as then, and say-- +Sweet summer time and scene! + + +111. Mount Pelier, in the county of Dublin, overlooking Rathfarnham, +and more remotely Dundrum. To a brief residence near the latter village +the "Recollections" rendered in this poem are to be referred. + +112. Calderon's "El Principe Constante," translated in the earlier +volumes of the author's Calderon. London, 1853. + +113. I do not know the bird to which I have given this Indian name. +It, however, imitated its note quite distinctly. + + + +DOLORES. + +The moon of my soul is dark, Dolores, + Dead and dark in my breast it lies, +For I miss the heaven of thy smile, Dolores, + And the light of thy brown bright eyes. + +The rose of my heart is gone, Dolores, + Bud or blossom in vain I seek; +For I miss the breath of thy lip, Dolores, + And the blush of thy pearl-pale cheek. + +The pulse of my heart is still, Dolores, + Still and chill is its glowing tide; +For I miss the beating of thine, Dolores, + In the vacant space by my side. + +But the moon shall revisit my soul, Dolores, + And the rose shall refresh my heart, +When I meet thee again in heaven, Dolores, + Never again to part. + + + +LOST AND FOUND. + +"Whither art thou gone, fair Una? + Una fair, the moon is gleaming; +Fear no mortal eye, fair Una, + For the very flowers are dreaming. +And the twinkling stars are closing + Up their weary watching glances, +Warders on heaven's walls reposing, + While the glittering foe advances. + +"Una dear, my heart is throbbing, + Full of throbbings without number; +Come! the tired-out streams are sobbing + Like to children ere they slumber; +And the longing trees inclining, + Seek the earth's too distant bosom; +Sad fate! that keeps from intertwining + The earthly and the aerial blossom. + +"Una dear, I've roamed the mountain, + Round the furze and o'er the heather; +Una, dear, I've sought the fountain + Where we rested oft together; +Ah! the mountain now looks dreary, + Dead and dark where no life liveth; +Ah! the fountain, to the weary, + Now, no more refreshment giveth. + +"Una, darling, dearest daughter + Beauty ever gave to Fancy, +Spirit of the silver water, + Nymph of Nature's necromancy! +Fair enchantress, fond magician, + Is thine every spell-word spoken? +Hast thou closed thy fairy mission? + Is thy potent wand then broken? + +"Una dearest, deign to hear me, + Fly no more my prayer resisting!" +Then a trembling voice came near me, + Like a maiden to the trysting, +Like a maiden's feet approaching + Where the lover doth attend her; +Half-forgiving, half-reproaching, + Came that voice so shy and tender. + +"Must I blame thee, must I chide thee, + Change to scorn the love I bore thee? +And the fondest heart beside thee, + And the truest eyes before thee. +And the kindest hands to press thee, + And the instinctive sense to guide thee, +And the purest lips to bless thee, + What, O dreamer! is denied thee? + +"Hast thou not the full fruition, + Hast thou not the full enjoyance +Of thy young heart's fond ambition, + Free from every feared annoyance +Thou hast sighed for truth and beauty, + Hast thou failed, then, in thy wooing? +Dreamed of some ideal duty, + Is there nought that waits thy doing?-- + +"Is the world less bright or beauteous, + That dear eyes behold it with thee? +Is the work of life less duteous, + That thou art helped to do it, prithee? +Is the near rapture non-existent, + Because thou dreamest an ideal? +And canst thou for a glimmering distant + Forget the blessings of the real? + +"Down on thy knees, O doubting dreamer! + Down! and repent thy heart's misprision." +Scarce had I knelt in tears and tremor, + When the scales fell from off my vision. +There stood my human guardian angel, + Given me by God's benign foreseeing, +While from her lips came life's evangel, + "Live! that each day complete thy being!" + + + +SPRING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND. + +On receiving an early crocus and some violets in a letter from Ireland. + +Within the letter's rustling fold + I find once more a glad surprise-- +A little tiny cup of gold-- + Two little lovely violet eyes; +A cup of gold with emeralds set, + Once filled with wine from happier spheres; +Two little eyes so lately wet + With spring's delicious dewy tears. + +Oh! little eyes that wept and laughed, + Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim, +Oh! little cup that once was quaffed + By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim. +I press each silken fringe's fold, + Sweet little eyes once more ye shine; +I kiss thy lip, oh, cup of gold, + And find thee full of Memory's wine. + +Within their violet depths I gaze, + And see as in the camera's gloom, +The island with its belt of bays, + Its chieftained heights all capped with broom, +Which as the living lens it fills, + Now seems a giant charmed to sleep-- +Now a broad shield embossed with hills + Upon the bosom of the deep. + +When will the slumbering giant wake? + When will the shield defend and guard? +Ah, me! prophetic gleams forsake + The once rapt eyes of seer or bard. +Enough, if shunning Samson's fate, + It doth not all its vigour yield; +Enough, if plenteous peace, though late, + May rest beneath the sheltering shield. + +I see the long and lone defiles + Of Keimaneigh's bold rocks uphurled, +I see the golden fruited isles + That gem the queen-lakes of the world; +I see--a gladder sight to me-- + By soft Shanganah's silver strand, +The breaking of a sapphire sea + Upon the golden-fretted sand. + +Swiftly the tunnel's rock-hewn pass, + Swiftly the fiery train runs through; +Oh! what a glittering sheet of glass! + Oh! what enchantment meets my view! +With eyes insatiate I pursue, + Till Bray's bright headland bounds the scene. +'Tis Baiae, by a softer blue! + Gaeta, by a gladder green! + +By tasseled groves, o'er meadows fair, + I'm carried in my blissful dream, +To where--a monarch in the air-- + The pointed mountain reigns supreme; +There in a spot remote and wild, + I see once more the rustic seat, +Where Carrigoona, like a child, + Sits at the mightier mountain's feet. + +There by the gentler mountain's slope, + That happiest year of many a year, +That first swift year of love and hope, + With her then dear and ever dear, +I sat upon the rustic seat, + The seat an aged bay-tree crowns, +And saw outspreading from our feet + The golden glory of the Downs. + +The furze-crowned heights, the glorious glen, + The white-walled chapel glistening near, +The house of God, the homes of men, + The fragrant hay, the ripening ear; +There where there seemed nor sin nor crime, + There in God's sweet and wholesome air-- +Strange book to read at such a time-- + We read of Vanity's false Fair. + +We read the painful pages through, + Perceived the skill, admired the art, +Felt them if true, not wholly true, + A truer truth was in our heart. +Save fear and love of One, hath proved + The sage how vain is all below; +And one was there who feared and loved, + And one who loved that she was so. + +The vision spreads, the memories grow, + Fair phantoms crowd the more I gaze, +Oh! cup of gold, with wine o'erflow, + I'll drink to those departed days: +And when I drain the golden cup + To them, to those I ne'er can see, +With wine of hope I'll fill it up, + And drink to days that yet may be. + +I've drunk the future and the past, + Now for a draught of warmer wine-- +One draught, the sweetest and the last, + Lady, I'll drink to thee and thine. +These flowers that to my breast I fold, + Into my very heart have grown; +To thee I'll drain the cup of gold, + And think the violet eyes thine own. + +Boulogne, March, 1865. + + + +TO THE MEMORY OF FATHER PROUT. + +In deep dejection, but with affection, + I often think of those pleasant times, +In the days of Fraser, ere I touched a razor, + How I read and revell'd in thy racy rhymes; +When in wine and wassail, we to thee were vassal, + Of Watergrass-hill, O renowned P.P.! + May the bells of Shandon + Toll blithe and bland on + The pleasant waters of thy memory! + +Full many a ditty, both wise and witty, + In this social city have I heard since then +(With the glass before me, how the dream comes o'er me, + Of those Attic suppers, and those vanished men). +But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken, + Or hath left a token of such joy in me + As "The Bells of Shandon + That sound so grand on + The pleasant waters of the river Lee." + +The songs melodious, which--a new Harmodius-- + "Young Ireland" wreathed round its rebel sword, +With their deep vibrations and aspirations, + Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive board! +But to me seems sweeter, with a tone completer, + The melodious metre that we owe to thee-- + Of the bells of Shandon + That sound so grand on + The pleasant waters of the river Lee. + +There's a grave that rises o'er thy sward, Devizes, + Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar, +And a white stone flashes over Goldsmith's ashes + In quiet cloisters by Temple Bar; +So where'er thou sleepest, with a love that's deepest, + Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee, + While the Bells of Shandon + Shall sound so grand on + The pleasant waters of the river Lee. + + + +THOSE SHANDON BELLS. + +[The remains of the Rev. Francis Mahony were laid in the family +burial-place in St. Anne Shandon Churchyard, the "Bells," which he has +rendered famous, tolling the knell of the poet, who sang of their sweet +chimes.] + +Those Shandon bells, those Shandon bells! +Whose deep, sad tone now sobs, now swells-- +Who comes to seek this hallowed ground, +And sleep within their sacred sound? + +'Tis one who heard these chimes when young, +And who in age their praises sung, +Within whose breast their music made +A dream of home where'er he strayed. + +And, oh! if bells have power to-day +To drive all evil things away, +Let doubt be dumb, and envy cease-- +And round his grave reign holy peace. + +True love doth love in turn beget, +And now these bells repay the debt; +Whene'er they sound, their music tells +Of him who sang sweet Shandon bells! + +May 30, 1866. + + + +YOUTH AND AGE. + +To give the blossom and the fruit + The soft warm air that wraps them round, +Oh! think how long the toilsome root + Must live and labour 'neath the ground. + +To send the river on its way, + With ever deepening strength and force, +Oh! think how long 'twas let to play, + A happy streamlet, near its source. + + + +TO JUNE. +WRITTEN AFTER AN UNGENIAL MAY. + +I'll heed no more the poet's lay-- + His false-fond song shall charm no more-- + My heart henceforth shall but adore +The real, not the misnamed May. + +Too long I've knelt, and vainly hung + My offerings round an empty name; + O May! thou canst not be the same +As once thou wert when Earth was young. + +Thou canst not be the same to-day-- + The poet's dream--the lover's joy:-- + The floral heaven of girl and boy +Were heaven no more, if thou wert May. + +If thou wert May, then May is cold, + And, oh! how changed from what she has been-- + Then barren boughs are bright with green, +And leaden skies are glad with gold. + +And the dark clouds that veiled thy moon + Were silvery-threaded tissues bright, + Looping the locks of amber light +That float but on the airs of June. + +O June! thou art the real May; + Thy name is soft and sweet as hers + But rich blood thy bosom stirs, +Her marble cheek cannot display. + +She cometh like a haughty girl, + So conscious of her beauty's power, + She now will wear nor gem nor flower +Upon her pallid breast of pearl. + +And her green silken summer dress, + So simply flower'd in white and gold, + She scorns to let our eyes behold, +But hides through very wilfulness: + +Hides it 'neath ermined robes, which she + Hath borrowed from some wintry quean, + Instead of dancing on the green-- +A village maiden fair and free. + +Oh! we have spoiled her with our praise, + And made her froward, false, and vain; + So that her cold blue eyes disdain +To smile as in the earlier days. + +Let her beware--the world full soon + Like me shall tearless turn away, + And woo, instead of thine, O May! +The brown, bright, joyous eyes of June. + +O June! forgive the long delay, + My heart's deceptive dream is o'er-- + Where I believe I will adore, +Nor worship June, yet kneel to May. + + + +SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER. + +Summer is a glorious season + Warm, and bright, and pleasant; +But the Past is not a reason + To despise the Present. +So while health can climb the mountain, + And the log lights up the hall, +There are sunny days in Winter, after all! + +Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us, + Maiden-like in charms; +Summer, too, with all her promise, + Perished in our arms. +But the memory of the vanished, + Whom our hearts recall, +Maketh sunny days in Winter, after all! + +True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh, + All the best are dead; +But the wall-flower still perfumeth + Yonder garden-bed. +And the arbutus pearl-blossom'd + Hangs its coral ball-- +There are sunny days in Winter, after all! + +Summer trees are pretty,--very, + And love them well: +But this holly's glistening berry, + None of those excel. +While the fir can warm the landscape, + And the ivy clothes the wall, +There are sunny days in Winter, after all! + +Sunny hours in every season + Wait the innocent-- +Those who taste with love and reason + What their God hath sent. +Those who neither soar too highly, + Nor too lowly fall, +Feel the sunny days of Winter, after all! + +Then, although our darling treasures + Vanish from the heart; +Then, although our once-loved pleasures + One by one depart; +Though the tomb looms in the distance, + And the mourning pall, +There is sunshine, and no Winter, after all! + + + +THE BIRTH OF THE SPRING. + +O Kathleen, my darling, I've dreamt such a dream, +'Tis as hopeful and bright as the summer's first beam: +I dreamt that the World, like yourself, darling dear, +Had presented a son to the happy New Year! +Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered awhile, +But like yours was the joy, at her baby's first smile, +When the tender nurse, Nature, quick hastened to fling +Her sun-mantle round, as she fondled THE SPRING. + +O Kathleen, 'twas strange how the elements all, +With their friendly regards, condescended to call: +The rough rains of winter like summer-dews fell, +And the North-wind said, zephyr-like: "Is the World well?" +And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell o'er the earth +God's goodness to man in this mystical birth; +For a Son of this World, and an heir to the King +Who rules over man, is this beautiful Spring! + +O Kathleen, methought, when the bright babe was born, +More lovely than morning appeared the bright morn; +The birds sang more sweetly, the grass greener grew, +And with buds and with blossoms the old trees looked new; +And methought when the Priest of the Universe came-- +The Sun--in his vestments of glory and flame, +He was seen, the warm raindrops of April to fling +On the brow of the babe, and baptise him The Spring! + +O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! what treasures are piled +In the mines of the past for this wonderful Child! +The lore of the sages, the lays of the bards, +Like a primer, the eye of this infant regards; +All the dearly-bought knowledge that cost life and limb, +Without price, without peril, is offered to him; +And the blithe bee of Progress concealeth its sting, +As it offers its sweets to the beautiful Spring! + +O Kathleen, they tell us of wonderful things, +Of speed that surpasseth the fairy's fleet wings; +How the lands of the world in communion are brought, +And the slow march of speech is as rapid as thought. +Think, think what an heir-loom the great world will be +With this wonderful wire 'neath the earth and the sea; +When the snows and the sunshine together shall bring +All the wealth of the world to the feet of The Spring. + +Oh! Kathleen, but think of the birth-gifts of love, +That THE MASTER who lives in the GREAT HOUSE above +Prepares for the poor child that's born on His land-- +Dear God! they're the sweet flowers that fall from Thy hand-- +The crocus, the primrose, the violet given +Awhile, to make earth the reflection of heaven; +The brightness and lightness that round the world wing +Are thine, and are ours too, through thee, happy Spring! + +O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! that dream is gone by, +And I wake once again, but, thank God! thou art by; +And the land that we love looks as bright in the beam, +Just as if my sweet dream was not all out a dream, +The spring-tide of Nature its blessing imparts, +Let the spring-tide of Hope send its pulse through our hearts; +Let us feel 'tis a mother, to whose breast we cling, +And a brother we hail, when we welcome the Spring. + + + +ALL FOOL'S DAY. + +The Sun called a beautiful Beam, that was playing + At the door of his golden-wall'd palace on high; +And he bade him be off, without any delaying, + To a fast-fleeting Cloud on the verge of the sky: +"You will give him this letter," said roguish Apollo + (While a sly little twinkle contracted his eye), +With my royal regards; and be sure that you follow + Whatsoever his Highness may send in reply." + +The Beam heard the order, but being no novice, + Took it coolly, of course--nor in this was he wrong-- +But was forced (being a clerk in Apollo's post-office) + To declare (what a bounce!) that he wouldn't be long; +So he went home and dress'd--gave his beard an elision-- + Put his scarlet coat on, nicely edged with gold lace; +And thus being equipped, with a postman's precision, + He prepared to set out on his nebulous race. + +Off he posted at last, but just outside the portals + He lit on earth's high-soaring bird in the dark; +So he tarried a little, like many frail mortals, + Who, when sent on an errand, first go on a lark; +But he broke from the bird--reach'd the cloud in a minute-- + Gave the letter and all, as Apollo ordained; +But the Sun's correspondent, on looking within it, + Found, "Send the fool farther," was all it contained. + +The Cloud, who was up to all mystification, + Quite a humorist, saw the intent of the Sun; +And was ever too airy--though lofty his station-- + To spoil the least taste of the prospect of fun; +So he hemm'd, and he haw'd--took a roll of pure vapour, + Which the light from the beam made as bright as could be, +(Like a sheet of the whitest cream golden-edg'd paper), + And wrote a few words, superscribed, "To the Sea." + +"My dear Beam," or "dear Ray" (t'was thus coolly he hailed him), + "Pray take down to Neptune this letter from me, +For the person you seek--though I lately regaled him-- + Now tries a new airing, and dwells by the sea." +So our Mercury hastened away through the ether, + The bright face of Thetis to gladden and greet; +And he plunged in the water a few feet beneath her, + Just to get a sly peep at her beautiful feet. + +To Neptune the letter was brought for inspection-- + But the god, though a deep one, was still rather green; +So he took a few moments of steady reflection, + Ere he wholly made out what the missive could mean: +But the date (it was "April the first") came to save it + From all fear of mistake; so he took pen in hand, +And, transcribing the cruel entreaty, he gave it + To our travel-tired friend, and said, "Bring it to Land." + +To Land went the Sunbeam, which scarcely received it, + When it sent it, post-haste, back again to the sea; +The Sea's hypocritical calmness deceived it, + And sent it once more to the Land on the lea;-- +From the Land to the Lake--from the Lakes to the Fountains-- + From the Fountains and Streams to the Hills' azure crest, +'Till, at last, a tall Peak on the top of the mountains, + Sent it back to the Cloud in the now golden west. + +He saw the whole trick by the way he was greeted + By the Sun's laughing face, which all purple appears; +Then, amused, yet annoyed at the way he was treated, + He first laughed at the joke, and then burst into tears. +It is thus that this day of mistakes and surprises, + When fools write on foolscap, and wear it the while, +This gay saturnalia for ever arises + 'Mid the showers and the sunshine, the tear and the smile. + + + +DARRYNANE. + +[Written in 1844, after a visit to Darrynane Abbey.] + +Where foams the white torrent, and rushes the rill, +Down the murmuring slopes of the echoing hill-- +Where the eagle looks out from his cloud-crested crags, +And the caverns resound with the panting of stags-- +Where the brow of the mountain is purple with heath, +And the mighty Atlantic rolls proudly beneath, +With the foam of its waves like the snowy 'fenane'--[114] +Oh! that is the region of wild Darrynane! + +Oh! fair are the islets of tranquil Glengariff, +And wild are the sacred recesses of Scariff, +And beauty, and wildness, and grandeur commingle +By Bantry's broad bosom, and wave-wasted Dingle; +But wild as the wildest, and fair as the fairest, +And lit by a lustre that thou alone wearest-- +And dear to the eye and the free heart of man +Are the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane! + +And who is the Chief of this lordly domain? +Does a slave hold the land where a monarch might reign? +Oh! no, by St. Finbar,[115] nor cowards, nor slaves, +Could live in the sound of these free, dashing waves! +A chieftain, the greatest the world has e'er known-- +Laurel his coronet--true hearts his throne-- +Knowledge his sceptre--a Nation his clan-- +O'Connell, the chieftain of proud Darrynane! + +A thousand bright streams on the mountains awake, +Whose waters unite in O'Donoghue's lake-- +Streams of Glanflesk and the dark Gishadine +Filling the heart of that valley divine! +Then rushing in one mighty artery down +To the limitless ocean by murmuring Lowne--[116] +Thus Nature unfolds in her mystical plan +A type of the Chieftain of wild Darrynane! + +In him every pulse of our bosoms unite-- +Our hatred of wrong and our worship of right-- +The hopes that we cherish, the ills we deplore, +All centre within his heart's innermost core, +Which, gathered in one mighty current, are flung +To the ends of the earth from his thunder-toned tongue! +Till the Indian looks up, and the valiant Afghan +Draws his sword at the echo from far Darrynane! + +But here he is only the friend and the father, +Who from children's sweet lips truest wisdom can gather, +And seeks from the large heart of Nature to borrow +Rest for the present and strength for the morrow! +Oh! who that e'er saw him with children about him +And heard his soft tones of affection could doubt him? +My life on the truth of the heart of that man +That throbs like the Chieftain's of wild Darrynane! + +Oh! wild Darrynane, on thy ocean-washed shore, +Shall the glad song of mariners echo once more? +Shall the merchants, and minstrels, and maidens of Spain, +Once again in their swift ships come over the main? +Shall the soft lute be heard, and the gay youths of France +Lead our blue-eyed young maidens again to the dance? +Graceful and shy as thy fawns, Killenane,[117] +Are the mind-moulded maidens of far Darrynane! + +Dear land of the south, as my mind wandered o'er +All the joys I have felt by thy magical shore, +From those lakes of enchantment by oak-clad Glena +To the mountainous passes of bold Iveragh! +Like birds which are lured to a haven of rest, +By those rocks far away on the ocean's bright breast--[118] +Thus my thoughts loved to linger, as memory ran +O'er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane! + + +114. "In the mountains of Slievelougher, and other parts of this +county, the country people, towards the end of June, cut the coarse +mountain grass, called by them 'fenane'; towards August this grass grows +white."--Smith's Kerry. + +115. The abbey on the grounds of Darrynane was founded in the seventh +century by the monks of St. Finbar. + +116. The river Lowne is the only outlet by which all the streams that +form the Lakes of Killarney discharge themselves into the sea--'Lan,' or +'Lowne,' in the old Irish signifying full. + +117. "Killenane lies to the east of Cahir. It has many mountains +towards the sea. These mountains are frequented by herds of fallow +deer, that range about it in perfect security."--Smith's Kerry. + +118. The Skellig Rocks. In describing one of them, Keating says "That +there is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all +the birds which attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to alight upon +the rock." + + + +A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE. + +(On receiving a Shamrock in a Letter from Ireland.) + +O postman! speed thy tardy gait-- + Go quicker round from door to door; +For thee I watch, for thee I wait, + Like many a weary wanderer more. +Thou brightest news of bale and bliss-- + Some life begun, some life well o'er. +He stops--he rings!--O heaven! what's this?-- + A shamrock from the Irish shore! + +Dear emblem of my native land, + By fresh fond words kept fresh and green; +The pressure of an unfelt hand-- + The kisses of a lip unseen; +A throb from my dead mother's heart-- + My father's smile revived once more-- +Oh, youth! oh, love! oh, hope thou art, + Sweet shamrock from the Irish shore! + +Enchanter, with thy wand of power, + Thou mak'st the past be present still: +The emerald lawn--the lime-leaved bower-- + The circling shore--the sunlit hill; +The grass, in winter's wintriest hours, + By dewy daisies dimpled o'er, +Half hiding, 'neath their trembling flowers, + The shamrock of the Irish shore! + +And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed, + By queenly Florence, kingly Rome-- +By Padua's long and lone arcade-- + By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam-- +By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed + My poet sailing calmly o'er; +By all, by each, I mourned and missed + The shamrock of the Irish shore! + +I saw the palm-tree stand aloof, + Irresolute 'twixt the sand and sea: +I saw upon the trellised roof + Outspread the wine that was to be; +A giant-flowered and glorious tree + I saw the tall magnolia soar; +But there, even there, I longed for thee, + Poor shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Now on the ramparts of Boulogne, + As lately by the lonely Rance, +At evening as I watch the sun, + I look! I dream! Can this be France +Not Albion's cliffs, how near they be, + He seems to love to linger o'er; +But gilds, by a remoter sea, + The shamrock on the Irish shore! + +I'm with him in that wholesome clime-- + That fruitful soil, that verdurous sod-- +Where hearts unstained by vulgar crime + Have still a simple faith in God: +Hearts that in pleasure and in pain, + The more they're trod rebound the more, +Like thee, when wet with heaven's own rain, + O shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Memorial of my native land, + True emblem of my land and race-- +Thy small and tender leaves expand + But only in thy native place. +Thou needest for thyself and seed + Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er; +Transplanted thou'rt the merest weed, + O shamrock of the Irish shore. + +Here on the tawny fields of France, + Or in the rank, red English clay, +Thou showest a stronger form perchance; + A bolder front thou mayest display, +More able to resist the scythe + That cut so keen, so sharp before; +But then thou art no more the blithe + Bright shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Ah, me! to think--thy scorns, thy slights, + Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave +On Fredericksburg's ensanguined heights, + Or by Potomac's purpled wave! +Ah, me! to think that power malign + Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore, +And what calm rapture might be thine, + Sweet shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet, + True type of trustful love thou art; +Thou liest the whole year at my feet, + To live but one day at my heart. +One day of festal pride to lie + Upon the loved one's heart--what more? +Upon the loved one's heart to die, + O shamrock of the Irish shore! + +And shall I not return thy love? + And shalt thou not, as thou shouldst, be +Placed on thy son's proud heart above + The red rose or the fleur-de-lis? +Yes, from these heights the waters beat, + I vow to press thy cheek once more, +And lie for ever at thy feet, + O shamrock of the Irish shore! + +Boulogne-sur-Mer, March 17, 1865. + + + +ITALIAN MYRTLES. + +[Suggested by seeing for the first time fire-flies in the myrtle hedges +at Spezzia.] + +By many a soft Ligurian bay + The myrtles glisten green and bright, +Gleam with their flowers of snow by day, + And glow with fire-flies through the night, +And yet, despite the cold and heat, +Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. + +There is an island in the West, + Where living myrtles bloom and blow, +Hearts where the fire-fly Love my rest + Within a paradise of snow-- +Which yet, despite the cold and heat, +Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. + +Deep in that gentle breast of thine-- + Like fire and snow within the pearl-- +Let purity and love combine, + O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl! +And in the cold and in the heat +Be ever fresh, and pure, and sweet. + +Thy bosom bears as pure a snow + As e'er Italia's bowers can boast, +And though no fire-fly lends its glow-- + As on the soft Ligurian coast-- +'Tis warmed by an internal heat +Which ever keeps it pure and sweet. + +The fire-flies fade on misty eves-- + The inner fires alone endure; +Like rain that wets the leaves, + Thy very sorrows keep thee pure-- +They temper a too ardent heat-- +And keep thee ever pure and sweet. + +La Spezzia, 1862. + + + +THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER. + +"Oh! come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; +Oh! come with me, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; +Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, +Who, prattling climb thy ag'ed knees, and call thy daughter--mother. + +"Oh come, and leave this land of death--this isle of desolation-- +This speck upon the sunbright face of God's sublime creation, +Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most malign hath risen, +When Labour seeks the poorhouse, and Innocence the prison. + +"'Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the husky wheat is bending; +'Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better time is sending; +'Tis true the island's aged face looks happier and younger, +But in the best of days we've known the sickness and the hunger. + +"When health breathed out in every breeze, too oft we've known the + fever-- +Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the bereaver: +Too well remember many a time the mournful task that brought him, +When freshness fanned the summer air, and cooled the glow of autumn. + +"But then the trial, though severe, still testified our patience, +We bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's wise dispensations; +We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise and a warning, +Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the morning. + +"But now through all the black expanse no hopeful morning breaketh-- +No bird of promise in our hearts the gladsome song awaketh; +No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of expectation-- +Nought but the gloom that might precede the world's annihilation. + +"So, mother, turn thy ag'ed feet, and let our children lead 'em +Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty and to freedom; +Forgetting nought of all the past, yet all the past forgiving; +Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly unto the living. + +"They tell us, they who read and think of Ireland's ancient story, +How once its emerald flag flung out a sunburst's fleeting glory +Oh! if that sun will pierce no more the dark clouds that efface it, +Fly where the rising stars of heaven commingle to replace it. + +"So come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; +Oh! come with us, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; +Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, +Who, prattling, climb thy ag'ed knees, and call thy daughter--mother." + +"Ah! go, my children, go away--obey this inspiration; +Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; +Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant + prairies; +Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's. + +"But though I feel how sharp the pang from thee and thine to sever, +To look upon these darling ones the last time and for ever; +Yet in this sad and dark old land, by desolation haunted, +My heart has struck its roots too deep ever to be transplanted. + +"A thousand fibres still have life, although the trunk is dying, +They twine around the yet green grave where thy father's bones are + lying; +Ah! from that sad and sweet embrace no soil on earth can loose 'em, +Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, and golden sands its bosom. + +"Others are twined around the stone, where ivy-blossoms smother +The crumbling lines that trace your names, my father and my mother; +God's blessing be upon their souls--God grant, my old heart prayeth, +Their names be written in the Book whose writing ne'er decayeth. + +"Alas! my prayers would never warm within those great cold buildings, +Those grand cathedral churches with their marbles and their gildings; +Far fitter than the proudest dome that would hang in splendour o'er me, +Is the simple chapel's white-washed wall, where my people knelt before + me. + +"No doubt it is a glorious land to which you now are going, +Like that which God bestowed of old, with milk and honey flowing; +But where are the blessed saints of God, whose lives of his law remind + me, +Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columkille, in the land I'd leave behind me? + +"So leave me here, my children, with my old ways and old notions; +Leave me here in peace, with my memories and devotions; +Leave me in sight of your father's grave, and as the heavens allied us, +Let not, since we were joined in life, even the grave divide us. + +"There's not a week but I can hear how you prosper better and better, +For the mighty fire-ships o'er the sea will bring the expected letter; +And if I need aught for my simple wants, my food or my winter firing, +You will gladly spare from your growing store a little for my requiring. + +"Remember with a pitying love the hapless land that bore you; +At every festal season be its gentle form before you; +When the Christmas candle is lighted, and the holly and ivy glisten, +Let your eye look back for a vanished face--for a voice that is silent, + listen! + +"So go, my children, go away--obey this inspiration; +Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; +Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant + prairies; +Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's." + + + +THE RAIN: A SONG OF PEACE.[119] + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain-- +Welcome, welcome, it cometh again; +It cometh with green to gladden the plain, +And to wake the sweets in the winding lane. + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +It fills the flowers to their tiniest vein, +Till they rise from the sod whereon they had lain-- +Ah, me! ah, me! like an army slain. + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +Each drop is a link of a diamond chain +That unites the earth with its sin and its stain +To the radiant realm where God doth reign. + +The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +Each drop is a tear not shed in vain, +Which the angels weep for the golden grain +All trodden to death on the gory plain; + +For Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, +Will waken the golden seeds again! +But, ah! what power will revive the slain, +Stark lying death over fair Lorraine? + +'Twere better far, O beautiful Rain, +That you swelled the torrent and flooded the main; +And that Winter, with all his spectral train, +Alone lay camped on the icy plain. + +For then, O Rain, O beautiful Rain, +The snow-flag of peace were unfurl'd again; +And the truce would be rung in each loud refrain +Of the blast replacing the bugle's strain. + +Then welcome, welcome, beautiful Rain, +Thou bringest flowers to the parched-up plain; +Oh! for many a frenzied heart and brain, +Bring peace and love to the world again! + +August 28, 1870. + + +119. Written during the Franco-German war. + + + + +M. H. Gill & Sons, Printers, Dublin. + + + + +Transcriber's Notes. + + +Source. The collection of poems here presented follows as closely as +possible the 1882 first edition. I assembled this e-text over several +years, either typing or scanning one poem at a time as the spirit moved +me. Some poems were transcribed either from the 1884 second edition, or +from D. F. MacCarthy's earlier publications, depending on whatever +happened to be handy at the time. I have proofread this entire e-text +against the 1882 edition. In many instances there are minor variations, +mostly in punctuation, among the different source material. In some +cases, if the 1882 edition clearly has an error, I have used the other +works as a guide. Where there are variations that are not obviously +errors, I have followed the 1882 edition. It is certainly possible, +where I transcribed from a non-1882 source, that a few variations may +have slipt my notice, and have not been changed. + +General. In the printed source the first word of each section and poem +is in "small capitals," which I have removed as per Project Gutenberg +standards. Elsewhere instances of small capitals are rendered as ALL +CAPITALS. In the printed source the patronymic prefix "Mac" is always +followed by a half space; due to limitations in this electronic format I +have rendered names in ALL CAPITALS with a full space (MAC CAURA) and +names in Mixed Capitals without any space (MacCaura) throughout. In +this plain-text file, italics in the original publication have been +either indicated with "double quotes" or 'single quotes' if contextually +appropriate; otherwise they have simply been dropt. Accents and other +diacritical marks have also been dropt. However, where the original has +an accent over the "e" in a past participle for poetical reasons, I have +marked an e-acute with an apostrophe (as in "belov'ed") and marked an +e-grave with a grave accent (as in "charm`ed") to indicate the intended +pronunciation. For a fully formatted version, with italics, extended +characters, et cetera, please refer to the HTML version of this +collection of poetry, released by Project Gutenberg simultaneously with +this plain text edition. The longest line in this plain-text file is 72 +characters; this means that in some poems I had to wrap the ends of very +long verses to the next line. + +Footnotes. In the printed source footnotes are marked with an asterisk, +dagger, et cetera and placed at the bottom of each page. In this +electronic version I have numbered the footnotes and placed them below +each section or poem. + +Contents. I have removed the page numbers from the contents list. Text +in brackets are my additions, giving alternate/earlier published titles +for the poems. + +Waiting for the May. This poem was published under the title of "Summer +Longings" in "The Bell-Founder and Other Poems," 1857. + +Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird. This poem was published under the title +of "Home Preference" in The Bell-Founder and Other Poems, 1857. + +Ferdiah. The ballad between Mave and Ferdiah includes some long lines +of text that would require (due to electronic publishing line length +standards) occasionally breaking a line ending to make a new line. +Because there is an internal rhyme in these lines, and for more +consistent formatting, I have decided to break every line here at the +internal rhyme, but not capitalizing the beginning of resultant new +line. For example, "Which many an arm less brave than thine, which many +a heart less bold, would claim?" is one line of verse in the 1882 +edition, but I have formatted it as "Which many an arm less brave than +thine, / which many a heart less bold, would claim?" For purposes of +recording errata below, I have not numbered these new pseudo-lines. The +word "creit" is taken directly from the Irish text untranslated--a +roughly equivalent English word is "frame." + +The Voyage of St. Brendan. Note 56 refers to a puffin (Anas leucopsis) +or 'girrinna.' The bird, at least by 2004 classification, is not a +puffin but a barnacle goose (Branta leucopsis) and I found one reference +to its Irish name as 'ge ghiurain.' As these birds nest in remote areas +of the arctic, people were quite free to invent stories of their +origins. + +The Dead Tribune. The subject of this poem is Daniel O'Connell +(1775-1847), an Irish political leader and Minister of Parliament. In +ill health, his doctor advised he go to a warmer climate; he died en +route to Rome for a pilgrimage. The 1882 edition has the word "knawing" +which is an obsolete variant of "gnawing"; the latter appears in the +1884 edition. + +A Mystery. The spelling of "Istambol" is intentional--the current +"Istanbul" was not adopted until the twentieth century. The name +probably derives from an old nickname for Constantinople, but the +complexity of this city's naming is beyond the capacity of a footnote. + +To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. MacCarthy's translation of Calderon's +"The Two Lovers of Heaven: Chrysanthus and Daria" has been released as +Project Gutenberg e-text #12173. + +To Ethna. This poem was published under the listing of "Dedicatory +Sonnet" and dated 1850 in The Bell-Founder and Other Poems, 1857. + +O'Connell. See note a few lines up on "The Dead Tribune." My +correction of the phrase "heaven's high fault" is not based on any other +published edition. It is conjectural, based on the illogicality of the +phrase and MacCarthy's use of the phrase "heaven's high vault" in his +translation of Calderon's "The Purgatory of St. Patrick" (Project +Gutenberg e-text #6371) published two years before this poem was +written. + +Moore. The subject of this poem is Thomas Moore (1779-1852). A +collection of his poems has been released as Project Gutenberg e-text +#8187, but note that the biographical sketch therein mistakenly lists +1780 as his birth year. In this poem "Shakspere" is not misspelt; it is +one of many variants used during and after the bard's lifetime (my +favorite is "Shaxpere" from 1582). + +To Ethna. This poem bears the same title as a sonnet, also in this +collection of poems. + +The Irish Emigrant's Mother. This poem was published under the title of +"The Emigrants" in The Bell-Founder and Other Poems, 1857. + + + + +Errata. + + +Printer's errors found in the 1882 edition have been corrected in this +electronic edition. While I have no desire to standardize Mr. +MacCarthy's spelling or curtail his poetic license, in some cases where +I could not find a documented variant matching the printed source I have +replaced it and listed the change here. Occasionally I have inserted +punctuation where it is obviously missing. Naturally it is possible +that some of these "corrections" are themselves erroneous. When in +doubt about either a spelling or punctuation error, I have followed the +text of the original. The list below does not include minor corrections +(punctuation and capitalization) in notes or introductions. + +The [original text is in brackets] and {corrected text is in braces} +below. + + +Contents. [The Year King] {The Year-King} / [The Awakening] +{The Awaking} / [The Voice and the Pen] {The Voice and Pen} + +Waiting for the May. line 9 [longing] {longing,} + +Kate of Kenmare. line 37 [and] {land} + +A Lament. line 117 [strewn] {strown} + +Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird. line 35 [home] {home,} + +The Fireside. line 20 [fireside.] {fireside!} + +Autumn Fears. line 40 [field] {field!} / line 48 [field] {field!} + +Ferdiah. line 69 [birds sing] {bird sings} / line 590 [ogether] +{Together} / line 1007 [gle] {glen} / line 1229 [be.'] {be."} + +The Voyage of St. Brendan. note 64 [tanagar] {tanager} / note 65 +[driole] {oriole} + +The Foray of Con O'Donnell. line 347 [and come] {and some} / line 407 +[seagull] {sea gull} + +The Bell-Founder. subheader [Vicissitude and Rest.] +{Part III.--Vicissitude and Rest.} + +Alice and Una. line 77 [Glengarifl's] {Glengariff's} / note 100 +[Digialis] {Digitalis} + +The Voice and Pen. line 35 [orator s] {orator's} + +The Arraying. line 59 [verduous] {verdurous} + +Welcome, May. line 30 [footseps] {footsteps} + +The Progress of the Rose. line 65 [beateous] {beauteous} + +The Year-King. line 114 [iu] {in} + +The Awaking. line 11 [fear] {fear,} / line 29 [known] {known:} + +The First of the Angels. line 32 [grass-bearing; lea] +{grass-bearing lea} + +Spirit Voices. title [VOICES] {VOICES.} / line 78 [prodnce] {produce} + +O'Connell. line 123 [fault] {vault} / line 283 [it] {its} + +Moore. line 101 [countr y] {country} + +"Not Known". line 39 [Not] {NOT} + +The Lay Missioner. line 20 [tis] {'tis} + +Recollections. line 94 [hundreth] {hundredth} + +Spring Flowers from Ireland. line 96 [own] {own.} + +The Birth of the Spring. line 21 [When] {when} / line 29 [nowledge] +{knowledge} + +Darrynane. line 30 [Lowne?] {Lowne--} / line 52 [main] {main?} + +The Irish Emigrant's Mother. line 10 [Tis] {'Tis} + +The Rain: a Song of Peace. line 32 [again] {again!} + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Poems, by Denis Florence MacCarthy + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 12622.txt or 12622.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/6/2/12622/ + +Produced by Dennis McCarthy + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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