Poems of James Clarence Mangan (Many hitherto uncollected): Centenary edition: Edited, with preface and notes by D. J. O'Donoghue: Introduction by John Mitchel |
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 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
52
THE CAPTIVITY OF THE GAELS.
'Twas by sunset . . . I walked and wandered
Over hill-sides . . . and over moors,
With a many sighs and tears.
Sunk in sadness . . . I darkly pondered
All the wrongs our . . . lost land endures
In these latter night-black years.
“How,” I mused, “has her worth departed!
What a ruin . . . her fame is now!
We, once freest of the Free,
We are trampled . . . and broken-hearted;
Yea, even our Princes . . . themselves must bow
Low before the vile Shane Bwee!”
Over hill-sides . . . and over moors,
With a many sighs and tears.
Sunk in sadness . . . I darkly pondered
All the wrongs our . . . lost land endures
In these latter night-black years.
“How,” I mused, “has her worth departed!
What a ruin . . . her fame is now!
We, once freest of the Free,
We are trampled . . . and broken-hearted;
Yea, even our Princes . . . themselves must bow
Low before the vile Shane Bwee!”
Nigh a stream, in . . . a grassy hollow,
Tired, at length, I . . . lay down to rest—
There the birds and balmy air
Bade new reveries . . . and cheerier follow
Waking newly . . . within my breast
Thoughts that cheated my despair.
Was I waking . . . or was I dreaming?
I glanced up, and . . . behold! there shone
Such a vision over me!
A young girl, bright . . . as Erin's beaming
Guardian spirit—now sad and lone,
Through the spoiling of Shane Bwee!
Tired, at length, I . . . lay down to rest—
There the birds and balmy air
Bade new reveries . . . and cheerier follow
Waking newly . . . within my breast
Thoughts that cheated my despair.
Was I waking . . . or was I dreaming?
I glanced up, and . . . behold! there shone
Such a vision over me!
A young girl, bright . . . as Erin's beaming
Guardian spirit—now sad and lone,
Through the spoiling of Shane Bwee!
53
O, for pencil . . . to paint the golden
Locks that waved in . . . luxuriant sheen
To her feet of stilly light!
(Not the Fleece . . . in ages olden
Jason bore o'er . . . the ocean green
Into Hellas, gleamed so bright.)
And the eyebrows . . . thin arched over
Her mild eyes, and . . . more, even more
Beautiful, methought, to see,
Than those rainbows . . . that wont to hover
O'er the blue island-lakes of yore
Ere the spoiling by Shane Bwee!
Locks that waved in . . . luxuriant sheen
To her feet of stilly light!
(Not the Fleece . . . in ages olden
Jason bore o'er . . . the ocean green
Into Hellas, gleamed so bright.)
And the eyebrows . . . thin arched over
Her mild eyes, and . . . more, even more
Beautiful, methought, to see,
Than those rainbows . . . that wont to hover
O'er the blue island-lakes of yore
Ere the spoiling by Shane Bwee!
Bard!” she spake, “deem . . . not this unreal.
I was niece of . . . a Pair whose peers
None shall see on earth again—
Æongus Con, and . . . the Dark O'Niall,
Rulers over . . . Iern in years
When her sons as yet were Men.
Times have darkened . . . and now our holy
Altars crumble, . . . and castles fall;
Our groans ring through Christendee.
Still, despond not! He comes, though slowly
He, the Man, who shall disenthral
The Proud Captive of Shane Bwee!”
I was niece of . . . a Pair whose peers
None shall see on earth again—
Æongus Con, and . . . the Dark O'Niall,
Rulers over . . . Iern in years
When her sons as yet were Men.
Times have darkened . . . and now our holy
Altars crumble, . . . and castles fall;
Our groans ring through Christendee.
Still, despond not! He comes, though slowly
He, the Man, who shall disenthral
The Proud Captive of Shane Bwee!”
Here she vanished; . . . and I, in sorrow,
Bent with joy, rose . . . and went my way
Homeward over moor and hill.
O Great God! Thou . . . from whom we borrow
Life and strength, unto Thee I pray!
Thou, who swayest at Thy will
Hearts and councils, . . . thralls, tyrants, freemen,
Wake through Europe . . . the ancient soul,
And on every shore and sea,
From the Blackwater to the Dniemen,
Freedom's Bell will . . . ere long time toll
The deep death-knell of Shane Bwee!
Bent with joy, rose . . . and went my way
Homeward over moor and hill.
O Great God! Thou . . . from whom we borrow
Life and strength, unto Thee I pray!
Thou, who swayest at Thy will
54
Wake through Europe . . . the ancient soul,
And on every shore and sea,
From the Blackwater to the Dniemen,
Freedom's Bell will . . . ere long time toll
The deep death-knell of Shane Bwee!
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |