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164

“A Ballad History is welcome to childhood, from its rhymes, its high colouring, and its aptness to memory. As we grow into boyhood, the violent passions, the vague hopes, the romantic sorrow of patriot ballads are in tune with our fitful and luxuriant feelings. In manhood we prize the condensed narrative, the grave firmness, the critical art, and the political sway of ballads. And in old age they are doubly dear; the companions and reminders of our life—the toys and teachers of our children and grand-children. Every generation finds its account in them. They pass from mouth to mouth like salutations; and even the minds which lose their words are under their influence, as one can recall the starry heavens who cannot revive the form of a single constellation.”—Davis's Essays.

165

V. PART V. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

166

“Nationality is no longer an unmeaning or despised name among us. It is welcomed by the higher ranks, it is the inspiration of the bold, and the hope of the people. It is the summary name for many things. It seeks a Literature made by Irishmen, and coloured by our scenery, manners, and character. It desires to see Art applied to express Irish thoughts and belief. It would make our Music sound in every parish at twilight, our Pictures sprinkle the walls of every house, and our Poetry and History sit at every hearth.

“It would thus create a race of men full of a more intensely Irish character and knowledge, and to that race it would give Ireland. It would give them the seas of Ireland to sweep with their nets and launch on with their navy; the harbours of Ireland, to receive a greater commerce than any island in the world; the soil of Ireland to live on, by more millions than starve here now; the fame of Ireland to enhance by their genius and valour; the Independence of Ireland to guard by laws and arms.”—Davis's Essays.


167

NATIONALITY.

I

A nation's voice, a nation's voice—
It is a solemn thing!
It bids the bondage-sick rejoice—
'Tis stronger than a king.
'Tis like the light of many stars,
The sound of many waves;
Which brightly look through prison-bars;
And sweetly sound in caves.
Yet is it noblest, godliest known,
When righteous triumph swells its tone.
168

II

A nation's flag, a nation's flag—
If wickedly unrolled,
May foes in adverse battle drag
Its every fold from fold.
But, in the cause of Liberty,
Guard it 'gainst Earth and Hell;
Guard it till Death or Victory—
Look you, you guard it well!
No saint or king has tomb so proud,
As he whose flag becomes his shroud.

III

A nation's right, a nation's right—
God gave it, and gave, too,
A nation's sword, a nation's might,
Danger to guard it through.
'Tis freedom from a foreign yoke,
'Tis just and equal laws,
Which deal unto the humblest folk,
As in a noble's cause.
On nations fixed in right and truth,
God would bestow eternal youth.

IV

May Ireland's voice be ever heard
Amid the world's applause!
And never be her flag-staff stirred,
But in an honest cause!
169

May Freedom be her very breath,
Be Justice ever dear;
And never an ennobled death
May son of Ireland fear!
So the Lord God will ever smile,
With guardian grace, upon our isle.

SELF-RELIANCE.

I

Though savage force and subtle schemes,
And alien rule, through ages lasting,
Have swept your land like lava streams,
Its wealth, and name, and nature blasting,
Rot not, therefore, in dull despair,
Nor moan at destiny in far lands;
Face not your foe with bosom bare,
Nor hide your chains in pleasure's garlands,
The wise man arms to combat wrong,
The brave man clears a den of lions,
The true man spurns the Helot's song;
The freeman's friend is Self-Reliance!
170

II

Though France, that gave your exiles bread,
Your priests a home, your hopes a station,
Or that young land, where first was spread
The starry flag of Liberation,—
Should heed your wrongs some future day,
And send you voice or sword to plead 'em,
With helpful love their help repay,
But trust not even to them for Freedom.
A Nation freed by foreign aid
Is but a corpse by wanton science
Convulsed like life, then flung to fade—
The life itself is Self-Reliance!

III

Oh! see your quailing tyrant run
To courteous lies, and Roman agents;
His terror, lest Dungannon's sun
Should rise again with riper radiance.
Oh! hark the Freeman's welcome cheer,
And hark your brother sufferers sobbing;
Oh! mark the universe grow clear,
And mark your spirit's royal throbbing.—
'Tis Freedom's God that sends such signs,
As pledges of his blest alliance;
He gives bright hopes to brave designs,
And lends his bolts to Self-Reliance!
171

IV

Then, flung alone, or hand-in-hand,
In mirthful hour, or spirit solemn;
In lowly toil, or high command,
In social hall, or charging column;
In tempting wealth, and trying woe,
In struggling with a mob's dictation;
In bearing back a foreign foe,
In training up a troubled nation:
Still hold to Truth, abound in Love,
Refusing every base compliance—
Your Praise within, your Prize above,
And live and die in Self-Reliance!

SWEET AND SAD.

A PRISON SERMON.

I

'Tis sweet to climb the mountain's crest,
And run, like deer-hound, down its breast;
'Tis sweet to snuff the taintless air,
And sweep the sea with haughty stare:
And, sad it is, when iron bars
Keep watch between you and the stars;
And sad to find your footstep stayed
By prison-wall and palisade:
172

But 'twere better be
A prisoner for ever,
With no destiny
To do, or to endeavour;
Better life to spend
A martyr or confessor,
Than in silence bend
To alien and oppressor.

II

'Tis sweet to rule an ample realm,
Through weal and woe to hold the helm;
And sweet to strew, with plenteous hand,
Strength, health, and beauty, round your land:
And sad it is to be unprized,
While dotards rule, unrecognized;
And sad your little ones to see
Writhe in the gripe of poverty:
But 'twere better pine
In rags and gnawing hunger,
While around you whine
Your elder and your younger;
Better lie in pain,
And rise in pain to-morrow,
Than o'er millions reign,
While those millions sorrow.
173

III

'Tis sweet to own a quiet hearth,
Begirt by constancy and mirth;
'Twere sweet to feel your dying clasp
Returned by friendship's steady grasp:
And sad it is, to spend your life,
Like sea-bird in the ceaseless strife—
Your lullaby the ocean's roar,
Your resting-place a foreign shore:
But 'twere better live,
Like ship caught by Lofoden,
Than your spirit give
To be by chains corroden;
Best of all to yield
Your latest breath, when lying
On a victor field,
With the green flag flying!

IV

Human joy and human sorrow,
Light or shade from conscience borrow;
The tyrant's crown is lined with flame,
Life never paid the coward's shame:
The miser's lock is never sure,
The traitor's home is never pure;
While seraphs guard, and cherubs tend
The good man's life and brave man's end:
174

But their fondest care
Is the patriot's prison,
Hymning through its air—
“Freedom hath arisen,
Oft from statesmen's strife,
Oft from battle's flashes,
Oft from hero's life,
Oftenest from his ashes!”

THE BURIAL.

Why rings the knell of the funeral bell from a hundred village shrines?
Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those long and ordered lines?
With tear and sigh they're passing by,—the matron and the maid—
Has a hero died—is a nation's pride in that cold coffin laid?
175

With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark men go tramping on—
Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their wrath till the rites are done?
THE CHAUNT.
“Ululu! ululu! high on the wind,
“There's a home for the slave where no fetters can bind.
“Woe, woe to his slayers”—comes wildly along,
With the trampling of feet and the funeral song.
And now more clear
It swells on the ear;
Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear.
“Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead.
“Green grow the grass of Fingall on his head;
“And spring-flowers blossom, ere elsewhere appearing,
“And shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for Erin.
“Ululu! ululu! soft fall the dew
“On the feet and the head of the martyred and true.”
For awhile they tread
In silence dread—
Then muttering and moaning go the crowd,
Surging and swaying like mountain cloud,
176

And again the wail comes fearfully loud.
THE CHAUNT.
“Ululu! ululu! kind was his heart!
“Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall part.
“The faithful and pious, the Priest of the Lord,
“His pilgrimage over, he has his reward.
“By the bed of the sick, lowly kneeling,
“To God with the raised cross appealing—
“He seems still to kneel, and he seems still to pray,
“And the sins of the dying seem passing away.
“In the prisoner's cell, and the cabin so dreary,
“Our constant consoler, he never grew weary;
“But he's gone to his rest,
“And he's now with the blest,
“Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest—
“Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead!
“Ululu! ululu! here is his bed.”
Short was the ritual, simple the prayer,
Deep was the silence and every head bare;
The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around,
Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground.
Kneeling and motionless—“Dust unto dust.”
“He died as becometh the faithful and just—
“Placing in God his reliance and trust;”
177

Kneeling and motionless—“ashes to ashes”—
Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes;
Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray,
But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have they—
Stern and standing—oh! look on them now,
Like trees to one tempest the multitude bow;
Like the swell of the ocean is rising their vow:
THE VOW.
“We have bent and borne, though we saw him torn from his home by the tyrant's
crew—
“And we bent and bore, when he came once more, though suffering had pierced him
through:
“And now he is laid beyond our aid, because to Ireland true—
“A martyred man—the tyrant's ban, the pious patriot slew.
“And shall we bear and bend for ever,
“And shall no time our bondage sever,
“And shall we kneel, but battle never,
“For our own soil?
“And shall our tyrants safely reign
“On thrones built up of slaves and slain,
“And nought to us and ours remain
“But chains and toil?
“No! round this grave our oath we plight,
“To watch, and labour, and unite,
“Till banded be the nation's might—
“Its spirit steeled,
178

“And then, collecting all our force,
“We'll cross oppression in its course,
“And die—or all our rights enforce,
“On battle field.”
Like an ebbing sea that will come again,
Slowly retired that host of men;
Methinks they'll keep some other day
The oath they swore on the martyr's clay.

WE MUST NOT FAIL.

I

We must not fail, we must not fail,
However fraud or force assail;
By honour, pride, and policy,
By Heaven itself!—we must be free.

II

Time had already thinned our chain,
Time would have dulled our sense of pain;
By service long, and suppliance vile,
We might have won our owner's smile.

III

We spurned the thought, our prison burst.
And dared the despot to the worst;
Renewed the strife of centuries,
And flung our banner to the breeze.
179

IV

We called the ends of earth to view
The gallant deeds we swore to do;
They knew us wronged, they knew us brave,
And, all we asked, they freely gave.

V

We took the starving peasant's mite
To aid in winning back his right,
We took the priceless trust of youth;
Their freedom must redeem our truth.

VI

We promised loud, and boasted high,
“To break our country's chains, or die;”
And, should we quail, that country's name
Will be the synonyme of shame.

VII

Earth is not deep enough to hide
The coward slave who shrinks aside;
Hell is not hot enough to scathe
The ruffian wretch who breaks his faith.

VIII

But—calm, my soul!—we promised true
Her destined work our land shall do;
Thought, courage, patience will prevail!
We shall not fail—we shall not fail!
180

O'CONNELL'S STATUE.

(LINES TO HOGAN.)

Chisel the likeness of The Chief,
Not in gaiety, nor grief;
Change not by your art to stone,
Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan.
Dark her tale, and none can tell
Its fearful chronicle so well.
Her frame is bent—her wounds are deep—
Who, like him, her woes can weep?
He can be gentle as a bride,
While none can rule with kinglier pride.
Calm to hear, and wise to prove,
Yet gay as lark in soaring love.
Well it were, posterity
Should have some image of his glee;
That easy humour, blossoming
Like the thousand flowers of spring!
Glorious the marble which could show
His bursting sympathy for woe.
181

Could catch the pathos, flowing wild,
Like mother's milk to craving child.
And oh! how princely were the art
Could mould his mien, or tell his heart.
When sitting sole on Tara's hill,
While hung a million on his will!
Yet, not in gaiety, nor grief,
Chisel the image of our Chief;
Nor even in that haughty hour
When a nation owned his power.
But would you by your art unroll
His own, and Ireland's secret soul,
And give to other times to scan
The greatest greatness of the man?
Fierce defiance let him be
Hurling at our enemy.—
From a base as fair and sure
As our love is true and pure,
Let his statue rise as tall
And firm as a castle wall;
On his broad brow let there be
A type of Ireland's history;
Pious, generous, deep, and warm,
Strong and changeful as a storm;
Let whole centuries of wrong
Upon his recollection throng—
182

Strongbow's force, and Henry's wile,
Tudor's wrath, and Stuart's guile,
And iron Strafford's tiger jaws,
And brutal Brunswick's penal laws;
Not forgetting Saxon faith,
Not forgetting Norman scaith,
Not forgetting William's word,
Not forgetting Cromwell's sword.
Let the Union's fetter vile—
The shame and ruin of our isle—
Let the blood of 'Ninety-Eight
And our present blighting fate—
Let the poor mechanic's lot,
And the peasant's ruined cot,
Plundered wealth and glory flown,
Ancient honours overthrown—
Let trampled altar, rifled urn,
Knit his look to purpose stern.
Mould all this into one thought,
Like wizard cloud with thunder fraught;
Still let our glories through it gleam,
Like fair flowers through a flooded stream,
Or like a flashing wave at night,
Bright,—'mid the solemn darkness bright.
Let the memory of old days
Shine through the statesman's anxious face—
Dathi's power, and Brian's fame,
And headlong Sarsfield's sword of flame,
183

And the spirit of Red Hugh,
And the pride of 'Eighty-Two,
And the victories he won,
And the hope that leads him on!
Let whole armies seem to fly
From his threatening hand and eye;
Be the strength of all the land
Like a falchion in his hand,
And be his gesture sternly grand.
A braggart tyrant swore to smite
A people struggling for their right—
O'Connell dared him to the field,
Content to die, but never yield.
Fancy such a soul as his,
In a moment such as this,
Like cataract, or foaming tide,
Or army charging in its pride.
Thus he spoke, and thus he stood,
Proffering in our cause his blood.
Thus his country loves him best—
To image this is your behest.
Chisel thus, and thus alone,
If to man you'd change the stone.
184

THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED.

[_]

Air—Irish Molly O!

I

Full often when our fathers saw the Red above the Green,
They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, pike, and scian,
And over many a noble town, and many a field of dead,
They proudly set the Irish Green above the English Red.

II

But in the end, throughout the land, the shameful sight was seen—
The English Red in triumph high above the Irish Green;
But well they died in breach and field, who, as their spirits fled,
Still saw the Green maintain its place above the English Red.
185

III

And they who saw, in after times, the Red above the Green,
Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a forest screen;
Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking hearts were fed,
That, in some day to come, the Green should flutter o'er the Red.

IV

Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe Tone sunk serene—
Because they could not bear to leave the Red above the Green;
And 'twas for this that Owen fought, and Sarsfield nobly bled—
Because their eyes were hot to see the Green above the Red.

V

So, when the strife began again, our darling Irish Green
Was down upon the earth, while high the English Red was seen;
Yet still we held our fearless course, for something in us said,
“Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green above the Red.”
186

VI

And 'tis for this we think and toil, and knowledge strive to glean,
That we may pull the English Red below the Irish Green,
And leave our sons sweet Liberty, and smiling plenty spread
Above the land once dark with blood—the Green above the Red!

VII

The jealous English tyrant now has banned the Irish Green,
And forced us to conceal it like a something foul and mean;
But yet, by Heavens! he'll sooner raise his victims from the dead
Than force our hearts to leave the Green, and cotton to the Red!

VIII

We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and blesses those who lean
On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly king or queen;
And, freely as we lift our hands, we vow our blood to shed
Once and for evermore to raise the Green above the Red!
187

THE VOW OF TIPPERARY.

[_]

Air.—Tipperary.

I

From Carrick streets to Shannon shore,
From Slievenamon to Ballindeary,
From Longford Pass to Gaillte Mór,
Come hear The Vow of Tipperary.

II

Too long we fought for Britain's cause,
And of our blood were never chary;
She paid us back with tyrant laws,
And thinned The Homes of Tipperary.

III

Too long, with rash and single arm,
The peasant strove to guard his eyrie,
Till Irish blood bedewed each farm,
And Ireland wept for Tipperary.

IV

But never more we'll lift a hand—
We swear by God and Virgin Mary!
Except in war for Native Land,
And that's The Vow of Tipperary!
188

A PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS.

I

“Base Bog-trotters,” says the Times,
“Brown with mud, and black with crimes,
Turf and lumpers dig betimes
(We grant you need 'em),
But never lift your heads sublime,
Nor talk of Freedom.”

II

Yet, Bog-trotters, sirs, be sure,
Are strong to do, and to endure,
Men whose blows are hard to cure—
Brigands! what's in ye,
That the fierce man of the moor
Can't stand again ye?

III

The common drains in Mushra moss
Are wider than a castle fosse,
Connaught swamps are hard to cross,
And histories boast
That Allen's Bog has caused the loss
Of many a host.
189

IV

Oh! were you in an Irish bog,
Full of pikes, and scarce of prog,
You'd wish your Times-ship was incog.
Or far away,
Though Saxons, thick as London fog,
Around you lay.

A SECOND PLEA FOR THE BOG TROTTERS.

I

The Mail says, that Hanover's King
Twenty Thousand men will bring,
And make the “base bog-trotters” sing
A pillileu;
And that O'Connell high shall swing,
And others too.

II

There is a tale of Athens told,
Worth at least its weight in gold
To fellows of King Ernest's mould,
(The royal rover),
Who think men may be bought and sold,
Or ridden over.
190

III

Darius (an Imperial wretch,
A Persian Ernest, or Jack Ketch,)
Bid his knaves from Athens fetch
“Earth and water,”
Or else the heralds necks he'd stretch,
And Athens slaughter.

IV

The Athenians threw them in a well,
And left them there to help themsel’,
And when his armies came, pell-mell,
They tore his banners,
And sent his slaves in shoals to hell,
To mend their manners.

V

Let those who bring and those who send
Hanoverians, comprehend
Persian-like may be their end,
And the “bog-trotter”
May drown their knaves, their banners rend,
Their armies slaughter.
191

A SCENE IN THE SOUTH.

I

I was walking along in a pleasant place,
In the county Tipperary;
The scene smiled as happy as the holy face
Of the Blessed Virgin Mary;
And the trees were proud, and the sward was green,
And the birds sang loud in the leafy scene.

II

Yet somehow I felt strange, and soon I felt sad,
And then I felt very lonely;
I pondered in vain why I was not glad,
In a place meant for pleasure only:
For I thought that grief had never been there,
And that sin would as lief to heaven repair.

III

And a train of spirits seemed passing me by,
The air grew as heavy as lead;
I looked for a cabin, yet none could I spy
In the pastures about me spread;
Yet each field seemed made for a peasant's cot,
And I felt dismayed when I saw them not.
192

IV

As I stayed on the field, I saw—Oh, my God!
The marks where a cabin had been:
Through the midst of the fields, some feet of the sod
Were coarser and far less green,
And three or four trees in the centre stood,
But they seemed to freeze in their solitude.

V

Surely here was the road that led to the cot,
For it ends just beneath the trees,
And the trees like mourners are watching the spot,
And cronauning with the breeze;
And their stems are bare with children's play,
But the children—where, oh! where are they?

VI

An old man unnoticed had come to my side,
His hand in my arm linking—
A reverend man, without haste or pride—
And he said:—“I know what you're thinking;
“A cabin stood once underneath the trees,
“Full of kindly ones—but alas! for these!

VII

“A loving old couple, and tho' somewhat poor,
“Their children had leisure to play;
“And the piper, and stranger, and beggar were sure
“To bless them in going away;
“But the typhus came, and the agent too—
“Ah! need I name the worst of the two?
193

VIII

“Their cot was unroofed, yet they strove to hide
“In its walls till the fever was passed;
“Their crime was found out, and the cold ditch side
“Was their hospital at last:
“Slowly they went to poorhouse and grave,
“But the Lord they bent to, their souls will save.

IX

“And thro' many a field you passed, and will pass,
“In this lordling's ‘cleared’ demesne,
“Where households as happy were once—but, alas!
“They too are scattered or slain.”
Then he pressed my hand, and he went away;
I could not stand, so I knelt to pray:

X

“God of justice!” I sighed, “send your spirit down
“On these lords so cruel and proud,
“And soften their hearts, and relax their frown,
“Or else,” I cried aloud—
“Vouchsafe thy strength to the peasant's hand
“To drive them at length from off the land!”
 

The scene is a mere actual landscape which I saw.—Author's Note.

194

WILLIAM TELL AND THE GENIUS OF SWITZERLAND.

I.

Tell.
—You have no fears,
My native land!
Then dry your tears,
And draw your brand.
A million made a vow
To free you.—Wherefore, now,
Tears again, my native land?

II.

Genius.
—I weep not from doubt,
I weep not for dread;
There's strength in your shout,
And trust in your tread.
I weep, for I look for the coming dead,
Who for Liberty's cause shall die;
And I hear a wail from the widow's bed
Come mixed with our triumph-cry.
Though dire my woes, yet how can I
Be calm when I know such suffering's nigh?

195

III.

Tell.
—Death comes to all,
My native land!
Weep not their fall—
A glorious band!
Famine and slavery
Slaughter more cruelly
Than Battle's blood-covered hand!

IV.

Genius.
—Yes, and all glory
Shall honour their grave,
With shrine, song, and story,
Denied to the slave.
Thus pride shall so mingle with sorrow,
Their wives half their weeping will stay;
And their sons long to tempt on the morrow
The death they encounter to-day.
Then away, sons, to battle away!
Draw the sword, lift the flag, and away!

 

Just before the insurrection which expelled the Austrians, Tell and some of his brother conspirators spent a night on the shore of the Underwald Lake, consulting for liberty; and while they were thus engaged, the genius of Switzerland appeared to them, and she was armed, but weeping. “Why weep you, mother?” said Tell; and she answered, “I see dead patriots, and hear their orphans wailing;”— and he said again to her, “The tyrant kills us with his prisons and taxes, and poisons our air with his presence; war-death is better;” and she said, “It is better”—and the cloud passed from her brow, and she gave him a spear and bade him conquer.—Author's Note.

196

THE EXILE.

[_]

(PARAPHRASED FROM THE FRENCH.)

I

I've passed through the nations unheeded, unknown;
Though all looked upon me, none called me their own.
I shared not their laughter—they cared not my moan—
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.

II

At eve, when the smoke from some cottage uprose,
How happy I've thought, at the weary day's close,
With his dearest around, must the peasant repose;
But, ah! the poor exile is always alone.

III

Where hasten those clouds? to the land or the sea—
Driven on by the tempest, poor exiles, like me?
What matter to either where either shall flee?
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.

IV

Those trees they are beauteous—those flowers they are fair;
But no trees and no flowers of my country are there.
They speak not unto me—they heed not my care;
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.
197

V

That brook murmurs softly its way through the plain;
But the brooks of my childhood had not the same strain.
It reminds me of nothing—it murmurs in vain;
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.

VI

Sweet are those songs, but their sweetness or sorrow
No charm from the songs of my infancy borrow,
I hear them to-day and forget them to-morrow;
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.

VII

They've asked me, “Why weep you?” I've told them my woe—
They listed my words, as the rocks feel the snow.
No sympathy bound us; how could their tears flow?
For, sure the poor exile is always alone.

VIII

When soft on their chosen the young maidens smile,
Like the dawn of the morn on Erin's dear isle,
With no love-smile to cheer me, I look on the while;
For, ah! the poor exile is always alone.

IX

Like boughs round the tree are those babes round their mother,
And these friends, like its roots, clasp and grow to each other;
But, none call me child, and none call me brother;
For, ah! the poor exile is ever alone.
198

X

Wives never clasp, and friends never smile,
Mothers ne'er fondle, nor maidens beguile;
And happiness dwells not, except in our isle,—
And so the poor exile is always alone.

XI

Poor exile, cease grieving, for all are like you—
Weeping the banished, the lovely, and true.
Our country is Heaven—'twill welcome you, too;
And cherish the exile, no longer alone!

MY HOME.

A DREAM.

I have dreamt of a home—a happy home—
The flcklest from it would not care to roam:
'Twas a cottage home on native ground,
Where all things glorious clustered round—
For highland glen and lowland plain
Met within that small demesne.
In sight is a tarn, with cliffs of fear,
Where the eagle defies the mountaineer,
And the cataract leaps in mad career,
And through oak and holly roam the deer.
On its brink is a ruined castle, stern,—
The mountains are crowned with rath and carn,
Robed with heather, and bossed with stone,
And belted with a pine wood lone.
199

Thro' that mighty gap in the mountain chain,
Oft, like rivers after rain,
Poured our clans on the conquered plain.
And there, upon their harassed rear,
Oft pressed the Norman's bloody spear;
Men call it “the pass of the leaping deer.”
Wild is the region, yet gentle the spot—
As you look on the roses, the rocks are forgot;
For garden gay, and primrose lawn
Peep through the rocks, as thro' night comes dawn.
And see, by that burn the children play;
In that valley the village maidens stray,
Listing the thrush and the robin's lay,
Listing the burn sigh back to the breeze,
And hoping—guess whom? 'mong the thorn trees.
Not yet, dear girls—on the uplands green
Shepherds and flocks may still be seen.
Freemen's toils, with fruit and grain,
The valley fill, and clothe the plain.
There's the health which labour yields—
Labour tilling its own fields.
Freed at length from stranger lord—
From his frown, or his reward—
Each the owner of his land,
Plenty springs beneath his hand.
200

Meet these men on land or sea—
Meet them in council, war, or glee;
Voice, glance, and mien, bespeak them free.
Welcome greets you at their hearth;
Reverend they to age and worth;
Yet prone to jest and full of mirth.
Fond of song, and dance, and crowd —
Of harp, and pipe, and laughter loud;
Their lay of love is low and bland,
Their wail for death is wild and grand;
Awful and lovely their song of flame,
When they clash the chords in their country's name.
They seek no courts, and own no sway,
Save the counsels of their elders grey;
For holy love, and homely faith,
Rule their hearts in life and death.
Yet their rifles would flash, and their sabres smite,
And their pike-staffs redden in the fight,
And young and old be swept away,
Ere the stranger in their land should sway.
But the setting sun, ere he sink in the sea,
Flushes and flashes o'er crag and tree,
Kisses the clouds with crimson sheen,
And sheets with gold the ocean's green.
201

Where the stately frigate lies in the bay,
The friendly fleet of the Frenchmen lay.
Yonder creek, and yonder shore
Echoed then the battle's roar;
Where, on slope after slope, the west sun shines,
After the fight lay our conquering lines.
The triumph, though great, had cost us dear;
And the wounded and dead were lying near—
When the setting sun on our bivouac proud,
Sudden burst through a riven cloud,
An answering shout broke from our men—
Wounds and toils were forgotten then,
And dying men were heard to pray
The light would last till they passed away—
They wished to die on our triumph day.
We honoured the omen, and thought on times gone,
And from chief to chief the word was passed on,
The “harp on the green” our land-flag should be,
And the sun through clouds bursting, our flag at sea,
The green borne harp o'er yon battery gleams,
From the frigate's topgallant the “sun-burst” streams.
In that far-off isle a sainted sage
Built a lowly hermitage,
Where ages gone made pilgrimage.
Over his grave, with what weird delight,
The grey trees swim in the flooding light;
202

How a halo clasps their solemn head,
Like heaven's breath on the rising dead.
Longing and languid as prisoned bird,
With a powerless dream my heart is stirred.
And I pant to pierce beyond the tomb,
And see the light, or share the gloom.
But vainly for such power we pray.
God wills—enough—let man obey.
Two thousand years, 'mid sun and storm,
That tall tower has lifted its mystic form.
The yew-tree shadowing the aisle,
'Twixt airy arch and mouldering pile,
And nigh the hamlet that chapel fair
Shew religion has dwelt, and is dwelling there.
While the Druid's crom-leac up the vale
Tells how rites may change, and creeds may fail.
Creeds may perish, and rites may fall,
But that hamlet worships the God of all.
In the land of the pious, free, and brave,
Was the happy home that sweet dream gave.
But the mirth, and beauty, and love that dwell
Within that home—I may not tell.
 

Correctly cruit, the Irish name for the violin.—Author's Note.

203

MY GRAVE.

Shall they bury me in the deep,
Where wind-forgetting waters sleep?
Shall they dig a grave for me,
Under the green-wood tree?
Or on the wild heath,
Where the wilder breath
Of the storm doth blow?
Oh, no! oh, no!
Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs,
Or under the shade of Cathedral domes?
Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore;
Yet not there—nor in Greece, though I love it more.
In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find?
Shall my ashes career on the world-seeing wind?
Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound,
Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground?
Just as they fall they are buried so—
Oh, no! oh, no!
No! on an Irish green hill-side,
On an opening lawn—but not too wide;
204

For I love the drip of the wetted trees—
I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze,
To freshen the turf—put no tombstone there,
But green sods decked with daisies fair;
Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew,
The matted grass-roots may trickle through.
Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind,
“He served his country, and loved his kind.”
Oh! 'twere merry unto the grave to go,
If one were sure to be buried so.
Ον γαρ φιλει θεος γ', αποθνησκει νεος.
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