University of Virginia Library


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II. PART II. The Wars of Religion.


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Prologue.

‘CAN THESE BONES LIVE?’

A voice from the midnoon call'd, ‘Arise, be alone, and remove thee;
Descend into valleys of bale, and look on the visions of night;
From the stranger flee, and be strange to the men and the women that love thee
That thy wine may be tears, and that ashes may mix with the meats of delight.
To few is the Vision shown, and to none for his weal or from merit:
As lepers they live who see it; as those that men pity or hate:
And to few is the Voice reveal'd; yet to them who hear and can bear it
Though bitterness cometh at first, yet sweetness cometh more late.’
Then in vision I saw a Corse—death-cold; but the Angels had draped it
In light; and that light divine round the unseal'd death-cave was strewn;

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And an anthem rush'd o'er the worlds; but the tongue that moulded and shaped it
Was a great storm through ruins borne; and the lips that spake it were stone.

PLORANS PLORAVIT.

A.D. 1583.

She sits alone on the cold grave-stone
And only the dead are nigh her;
In the tongue of the Gael she makes her wail:
The night wind rushes by her.
‘Few, O few are the leal and true,
And fewer shall be, and fewer;
The land is a corse; no life, no force:
O wind with sere leaves strew her!
‘Men ask what scope is left for hope
To one who has known her story:—
I trust her dead! Their graves are red;
But their Souls are with God in glory.’

ROISIN DUBH;

OR, THE BLEEDING HEART.

I.

O who art thou with that queenly brow
And uncrown'd head?

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And why is the vest that binds thy breast,
O'er the heart, blood-red?
Like a rose-bud in June was that spot at noon,
A rose-bud weak;
But it deepens and grows like a July rose:
Death-pale thy cheek!

II.

‘The babes I fed at my foot lay dead;
I saw them die:
In Ramah a blast went wailing past;
It was Rachel's cry.
But I stand sublime on the shores of Time
And I pour mine ode
As Miriam sang to the cymbals' clang
On the wind to God.

III.

O sweet, men say, is the song by day,
And the feast by night;
But on poisons I thrive, and in death survive
Through ghostly might.’
 

Roisin Dubh signifies the ‘Black little Rose.’ It is well known to the Irish reader through the poem written in Queen Elizabeth's reign by the Bard of Red Hugh, Prince of Tirconnel.

THE DIRGE OF DESMOND.

Rush, dark Dirge, o'er hills of Erin! Woe for Desmond's name and race!
Loving Conqueror whom the Conquered caught so soon to her embrace:
There's a veil on Erin's forehead: cold at last is Desmond's hand:—
Halls that roofed her outlawed Prelates blacken like a blackening brand.

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Strongbow's sons forsook their Strong One, served so long with loving awe;
Roche the Norman, Norman Barry, and the Baron of Lixnaw:
Gaelic lords—that once were Princes—holp not—Thomond or Clancar:
Ormond, ill-crowned Tudor's kinsman, ranged her hosts, and led her war.
One by one his brothers perished: Fate down dragged them to their grave:
Smerwick's cliffs beheld his Spaniards wrestling with the yeasty wave.
Slain the herds, and burned the harvests, vale and plain with corpses strown,
'Mid the waste they spread their feast; within the charnel reigned—alone.
In the death-hunt she was nigh him; she that scorned to leave his side:
By her Lord she stood and spake not, neck-deep in the freezing tide:
Round them waved the osiers; o'er them drooped the willows, rank on rank:
Troopers spurred; and bayed the bloodhounds, up and down the bleeding bank.
From the East sea to the West sea rings the deathkeen long and sore:
Erin's Curse be his that led them to the hovel, burst the door!
O'er the embers dead an old man silent bent with head to knee:
Slowly rose he: backward fell they:—‘Seek ye Desmond? I am he.’

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London Bridge! thy central archway props that grey head year by year:
But to God that head is holy; and to Erin it is dear:
When that bridge is dust, that river in the last firejudgment dried,
The man shall live who fought for God; the man who for his country died.

WAR-SONG OF MAC CARTHY.

I

Two lives of an eagle, the old song saith,
Make the life of a black yew-tree;
For two lives of a yew-tree the furrow's path
Endures on the grassy lea:
Two furrows shall last till the time is past
God willeth the world to be;
For a furrow's time has Mac Carthy stood fast
Mac Carthy in Carbery.

II

Up with the banner whose green shall live
While lives the green on the oak!
And down with the axes that grind and rive
Keen-edged as the thunder-stroke!
And on with the battle-cry known of old
And the clan-rush like wind and wave;
On, on! the Invader is bought and sold;
His own hand hath dug his grave!

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FLORENCE MAC CARTHY'S FAREWELL TO HIS ENGLISH LOVE.

I

England's fair child, Evangeline!
In that far-distant land of mine
There stands a Yew-tree among tombs!
For ages there that tree hath stood,
A black pall dash'd with drops of blood;
O'er all my world it breathes its glooms.

II

Evangeline! Evangeline!
Because my Yew-tree is not thine,
Because thy Gods on mine wage war,
Farewell! Back fall the gates of brass;
The exile to his own must pass:
I seek the land of tombs once more.

TO THE SAME.

We seem to tread the self-same street,
To pace the self-same courts or grass;
Parting, our hands appear to meet:
O vanitatum vanitas!
Distant as earth from heaven—or hell—
From thee the things to me most dear:
Ghost-throng'd Cocytus and thy will
Between us rush. We might be near.

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Thy world is fair: my thoughts refuse
To dance its dance or drink its wine;
Nor canst thou hear the reeds and yews
That sigh to me from lands not thine.

THE DIRGE OF KILDARE.

A.D. 1595.

The North wind clanged on the sharp hill-side:
The mountain muttered: the cloud replied;
‘There is one rides up through thy woods, Tyrone!
That shall ride on a bier of the pine branch down.’
The flood roars over Danara's bed:
'Twas green at morning: to-night 'tis red:
What whispers the raven to oak and cave?
‘Make ready the bier and make ready the grave.’
Kildare, Kildare! Thou hast left the bound
Of hawk and heron, of hart and hound;
With the hunters art come to the Lion's lair:
He is mighty of limb and old. Beware!
Beware, for on thee that eye is set
Which glared upon Norreys at Clontibret:
And that hand is lifted, from horse to heath
Which hurled the giant they mourn in Meath!
Kildare, Kildare! There are twain this hour
With brows turned north from Maynooth's grey tower:
The Mother sees nought: the bride shall see
The Herald and Death-flag far off—not thee.

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WAR-SONG OF TIRCONNELL'S BARD AT THE BATTLE OF BLACKWATER.

August 14, A.D. 1598.

[_]

At this battle the Irish of Ulster were commanded by ‘Red Hugh’ O'Neill, Prince of Tyrone, and by Hugh O'Donnell (called also ‘Red Hugh’), Prince of Tirconnell. Queen Elizabeth's army was led by Marshal Bagnal, who fell in the rout with 2,500 of his force. Twelve thousand gold pieces, thirty-four standards, and all the artillery of the vanquished army were taken.

I.

Glory to God, and to the Powers that fight
For Freedom and the Right!
We have them then, the Invaders! There they stand
At last on Oriel's land!
And there the far-famed Marshal holds command,
Bagnal, their bravest, at his right
That recreant, neither chief nor knight,
‘The Queen's O'Reilly,’ he that sold
His country, clan, and church for gold.
They have pass'd the gorge stream-cloven,
And the mountain's purple bound;
Now the toils are round them woven,
Now the nets are spread around!
Give them time: their steeds are blown;—
Let them stand and round them stare,
Breathing blasts of Irish air:
Our eagles know their own!

II.

Twin Stars! Twin regents of our righteous war!
This day remember whose, and who ye are—

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Thou that o'er green Tir-owen's Tribes hast sway!
Thou whom Tirconnell's vales obey!
The line of Nial, the line of Conn
So oft at strife, to-day are one!
To Erin both are dear; to me
Dearest he is, and needs must be
My Prince, my chief, my child, on whom
So early fell the dungeon's doom.
O'Donnell! hear this day thy Bard!
By those young feet so maim'd and scarr'd,
Bit by the winter's fangs when lost
Thou wandered'st on through snows and frost,
Remember thou those years in chains thou worest,
Snatch'd in false peace from unsuspecting halls,
And that one thought, of all thy pangs the sorest,
Thy subjects groan'd the upstart Stranger's thralls!
That thought on waft thee through the fight:
On, on, for Erin's right!

III.

Seest thou yon stream whose tawny waters glide
Through weeds and yellow marsh lingeringly and slowly?
Blest is that spot and holy!
There, ages past, Saint Bercan stood and cried,
‘This spot shall quell one day the Invaders' pride!’
He saw in mystic trance
The blood-stain flush yon rill:
On, hosts of God, advance;
Your country's fates fulfil!
Be Truth this day your might!
Truth lords it in the fight!

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IV.

O'Neill! That day be with thee now
When, throned on Ulster's regal seat of stone,
Thou sat'st and thou alone;
While flocked from far the Tribes, and to thy hand
Was given the snow-white wand,
Erin's authentic sceptre of command!
Kingless a People stood around thee! Thou
Didst dash the alien bauble from thy brow,
And for a coronet laid down
That People's love became once more their Monarch's crown!
True King alone is he
In whom made one his People share the throne:
Fair from the soil he rises like a tree:
Rock-like the Tyrant presses on it, prone!
Strike for that People's cause!
For Gaelic rights; for Brehon laws:
The sage traditions of civility;
Pure hearths, and Faith set free!

V.

Hark! the thunder of their meeting!
Hand meets hand, and rough the greeting!
Hark! the crash of shield and brand;
They mix, they mingle, band with band,
Like two horn-commingling stags
Wrestling on the mountain crags,
Intertwisted, intertangled,
Mangled forehead meeting mangled!
Lo! the wavering darkness through
I see the banner of Red Hugh;

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Close beside is thine, O'Neill!
Now they stoop and now they reel,
Rise once more and onward sail,
Like two falcons on one gale!
O ye clansmen past me rushing,
Like mountain torrents seaward gushing,
Tell the chiefs that from this height
Their chief of Bards beholds the fight;
That on theirs he pours his spirit;
Marks their deeds and chants their merit;
While the Priesthood evermore,
Like him that ruled God's host of yore,
With arms outstretch'd that God implore!

VI.

Mightiest of the line of Conn,
On to victory! On, on, on!
It is Erin that in thee
Lives and works right wondrously!
Eva from the heavenly bourne
Upon thee her eyes doth turn,
She whose marriage couch was spread
'Twixt the dying and the dead!
Parcell'd kingdoms one by one
For a prey to traitors thrown;
Pledges forfeit, broken vows,
Roofless fane and blazing house;
All the dreadful deeds of old
Rise resurgent from the mould,
For their judgment peal is toll'd!
All our Future takes her stand
Hawk-like on thy lifted hand.
States that live not, vigil keeping
In the limbo of long weeping;

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Palace-courts and minster-towers
That shall make this isle of ours
Fairer than the star of morn,
Wait thy mandate to be born!
Chief elect 'mid desolation
Wield thou well the inspiration
Thou drawest from a new-born nation!

VII.

Sleep no longer Bards that hold
Ranged beneath me harps of gold!
Smite them with a heavier hand
Than vengeance lays on axe or brand!
Pour upon the blast a song
Linking litanies of wrong,
Till, like poison-dews, the strain
Eat into the Invader's brain.
On the retributive harp
Catch that death-shriek shrill and sharp,
Hers, though choked in blood, whose lord
Perish'd, Essex, at thy board!
Peerless chieftain! peerless wife!
From his throat, and hers, the knife
Drain'd the mingled tide of life!
Sing the base assassin's steel
By Sussex hired to slay O'Neill!
Sing, fierce Bards, the plains sword-wasted,
Sing the cornfields burnt and blasted,
That when raged the war no longer
Kernes dog-chased might pine with hunger!
Pour around their ears the groans
Of half-human skeletons
From wet cave or forest-cover

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Foodless deserts peering over,
Or upon the roadside lying
Infant dead and mother dying,
On their mouth the grassy stain
Of the wild weed gnaw'd in vain;—
Look upon them hoary Head
Of the last of Desmonds dead;
Head that evermore dost frown
From the Bridge of London down!
She that slew him from her barge
Makes that Head this hour the targe
Of her insults cold and keen,
England's Caliph, not her Queen!
—Portent terrible and dire
Whom thy country and thy sire
Branded with a bastard's name,
Thy birth was but thy lightest shame!
To honour recreant and thine oath;
Trampling that Faith whose borrow'd garb
First gave thee sceptre, crown, and orb,
Thy flatterers scorn, thy lovers loathe
That idol with the blood-stained feet
Ill-throned on murder'd Mary's seat!

VIII.

Glory be to Him Alone who holds the nations in His hand!
The plain lies bare; the smoke drifts by; they fly—the invaders—band o'er band!
Sing, ye priests, your deep Te Deums; bards, make answer loud and long
In your rapture flinging heavenward censers of triumphant song.

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Isle for centuries blind in bondage lift once more thine ancient boast,
From the cliffs of Inishowen southward on to Carbery's coast!
We have seen the Right made perfect, seen the Hand that rules the spheres
Glance like lightning through the clouds, and backward roll the wrongful years.
Glory fadeth, but this triumph is no fleeting barren glory;
Rays of healing it shall scatter on the eyes that read our story:
Upon nations bound and torpid as they waken it shall shine
As on Peter in his chains the Angel shone with light divine.
From the unheeding, from the unholy it may hide, like Truth, its ray;
But when Truth and Justice conquer on their crowns its beam shall play:
O'er the ken of troubled despots it shall trail a meteor's glare;
For the blameless it shall glitter as the star of morning fair:
Whensoever Erin triumphs then its dawn it shall renew;
Then O'Neill shall be remember'd, and Tirconnell's chief, Red Hugh!

THE TRUE VICTORY.

A warrior by his stone-dead lord
Fast bleeding sat, and heard on high

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Three Angels making of a sword,
Who sang right merrily:
‘We shape the sword of conquering days:—
What jewels shall that sword emboss?
Not deeds, but sufferings; shame, not praise,
The victories of the Cross.’

THE SUGANE EARL.

A.D. 1601.

I

'Twas the White Knight that sold him—his flesh and his blood!
A Fitz-Gerald betray'd the Fitz-Gerald:
Death-pale the false friend in the 'mid forest stood;
Close by stood the conqueror's herald!
At the cave-mouth he lean'd on his sword, pale and dumb,
But the eye that was on him o'erbore him:
‘Come forth,’ cried the White Knight;—one answer'd, ‘I come!’
And the Chief of his House stood before him!

II

‘Cut him down,’ said the Outlaw with cold smile and stern,
‘'Twas a bold stake; but Satan hath won it!’—
In the days of thy father, Earl Desmond, no kerne
Had heard that command, and not done it!
The name of the White Knight shall cease, and his race!
His castle down fall, roof and rafter!
This day is a day of rebuke; but the base
Shall meet what he merits hereafter!

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ORMOND'S LAMENT;

OR, THE FOE TURNED FRIEND.

I

There clung a mist about mine eye,
Or else round him a mist there clung:
From war to war the years went by,
And still that cloud between us hung:
That, that he was I saw him not,
Old friend, old comrade, fellow-man:
I saw but that which chance had wrought;
A rival house, a hostile clan.

II

In vain one Race, one Faith were ours:
A common Land, a common Foe:
Vainly we chased through Lorha's bowers,
In boyhood paired, the flying roe:
Sea-caves of Irr! in vain by you
Our horses stemmed the heaving floods
While freshening gales of morning blew
The sunrise o'er the mountain woods!

III

Ah spells of Fate! Ah Wrath and Wrong!
Ah Friend that once my dearest wert!
Where lay thine image hid so long
But in the centre of my heart?
Thou fell'st! a flash from out the past
One moment showed thee as of yore:

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Death followed fast—a midnight blast;
And that fair crest was seen no more.

IV

Ah, great right hand, so brave yet kind!
Ah, sovereign eyes! ah, lordly mirth!
Thy realm to-day—like me—sits blind:
And endless winter chills thy hearth.
This day I see thee in thy spring,
Though seventy winters make me grey:
This night my bards thy praise shall sing:
This night for thee my priests shall pray.
 

In Ireland there were occasions when the chief who had pursued an ancient enemy to the death became his sincerest mourner. A chronicler of the seventeenth century affirms that an instance of such a change was found in the Earl of Ormond of Elizabeth's time, called ‘Black Thomas.’ ‘Now, good reader, let there be truce to words, and listen to the whistling of the lash.—.... There was then in Ireland Thomas Butler, Earl of Ormond, who changed his religion in the court of Elizabeth. Brooding over the seandal he had given by his apostacy, he resolved to be reconciled to the Church in his last days. He therefore made his peace with God, edified all by his piety, and soon after, losing the ineffable blessing of sight, was gathered to his fathers. Now, ere he died, he was heard to lament two actions of his life—first, that he had ever renounced that holy religion in his youth which in his old age he was not able to succour; and, secondly, that he had taken up arms against the Geraldines of Desmond, who were ever the strenuous champions of the Faith, and the bulwarks of their country's liberty. Oh, good God! why did Ormond conspire to ruin them?’ (‘The Rise, Increase, and Exit of the Family of the Geraldines, Earls of Desmond, and Palatines of Kerry.’ Written in Latin by Brother Dominicus de Rosario O'Daly, in the seventeenth century, and translated by the Rev. C. P. Meahan.)


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THE PHANTOM FUNERAL;

OR, THE DIRGE OF THE LAST DESMOND.

A.D. 1601.

[_]

James Fitz-Garret, son of the ‘Great Earl of Desmond,’ had been sent to England when a child as a hostage, and was for seventeen years kept a prisoner in the Tower, and educated in the Queen's religion. James Fitz-Thomas, the ‘Sugane Earl,’ having meantime assumed the title and prerogatives of Earl of Desmond, the Queen sent her captive to Ireland, attended by persons devoted to her, and provided with a conditional patent for his restoration. When he reached Kilmallock, on his way to Kerry, wheat and salt were there showered on him by the people, in testimony of loyalty. The next day was Sunday. When the young Earl left his house, it was with difficulty that a guard of English soldiers could keep a path open for him. From street and window and housetop every voice urged him to fidelity to his ancestral faith. The youth, who did not even understand the language in which he was adjured, having reached a spot where two roads separated, took that one which led to ‘the Queen's church,’ as it was called; and with loud cries his clan rushed forth from Kilmallock, and abandoned his standard for ever. Shortly afterwards he returned to England, where he fell sick; and in a few months the news of his death reached his ancient palatinate of Kerry.—See the Pacata Hibernia.

THE WAIL OF THE WOMEN OF DESMOND.
Strew the bed and strew the bier,
(Who rests upon it was never man)
With all that a little child holds dear,
With violets blue and violets wan.
Strew the bed and strew the bier
With the berries that redden thy shores, Corann:
Lay not upon it helmet or spear:—
He knew them never. He ne'er was man.
Far off he sleeps; yet we mourn him here;
Their tale is falsehood! he ne'er was man!

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'Tis a phantom funeral! Strew the bier
With white lilies brushed by the floating swan.
They lie who say that the false Queen caught him
A child asleep on the mountains wide;
A captive reared him; a strange faith taught him;—
'Twas for no strange faith that his father died!
They lie who say that the child return'd
A man unmanned to his towers of pride;
That his people with curses the false Earl spurn'd;
Woe, woe, Kilmallock! they lie, and lied!
The Clan was wroth at an ill report,
But now the thunder-cloud melts in tears:
The child that was motherless play'd. 'Twas sport!
A child must sport in his childish years!
Ululah! Ululah! Low, sing low!
The women of Desmond loved well that child!
Our lamb was lost in the winter snow:
Long years we sought him in wood and wild.
How many a babe of Fitz-Gerald's blood
In hut was foster'd though born in hall!
The whole stock burgeon'd the fair new bud,
The old land welcomed them, each and all!
Glynn weeps to-day by the Shannon's tide,
And Shanid and she that frowns o'er Deal;
There is woe by the Laune and the Carra's side,
And where the Knight dwells by the woody Feale.
In Dingle and Beara they chant his dirge;
Far off he faded—our child—sing low!
We have made him a bed by the ocean's surge;
We have made him a bier on the mountain's brow.

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The Clan was bereft! the old walls they left;
With cries they rushed to the mountains drear!
But now great sorrow their heart hath cleft;
See! one by one they are drawing near!
Ululah! Ululah! Low, sing low!
The flakes fall fast on the little bier:
The yew-branch and eagle-plume over them throw!
The last of the Desmond Chiefs lies here.

THE MARCH TO KINSALE.

December, A.D. 1601.

I

O'er many a river bridged with ice
Through many a vale with snow-drifts dumb
Past quaking fen and precipice
The Princes of the North are come!
Lo, these are they that, year by year,
Roll'd back the tide of England's war;
Rejoice, Kinsale! thy help is near!
That wondrous winter march is o'er.
And thus they sang, ‘To-morrow morn
Our eyes shall rest upon the foe:
Pass on, swift night, in silence borne,
And blow, thou breeze of sunrise, blow!’

II

Blithe as a boy on march'd the host
With droning pipe and clear-voiced harp;
At last above that southern coast
Rang out their war-steed's whinny sharp:

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And up the sea-salt slopes they wound,
And airs once more of ocean quaff'd;
Those frosty woods, the blue wave's bound,
As though May touched them waved and laugh'd.
And thus they sang, ‘To-morrow morn
Our eyes shall rest upon our foe:
Pass on, swift night, in silence borne,
And blow, thou breeze of sunrise, blow!’

III

Beside their watchfires couch'd all night
Some slept, some danced, at cards some play'd,
While, chanting on a central height
Of moonlit crag, the priesthood pray'd:
And some to sweetheart, some to wife
Sent message kind; while others told
Triumphant tales of recent fight,
Or legends of their sires of old.
And thus they sang, ‘To-morrow morn
Our eyes at last shall see the foe:
Roll on, swift night, in silence borne,
And blow, thou breeze of sunrise, blow!’

KINSALE.

January 3, A.D. 1602.

What man can stand amid a place of tombs
Nor yearn to that poor vanquished dust beneath?
Above a Nation's grave no violet blooms;
A vanquished Nation lies in endless death.

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'Tis past: the dark is dense with ghost and vision!
All lost! the air is throng'd with moan and wail:
But one day more and hope had been fruition:
O Athunree, thy fate o'erhung Kinsale!
What name is that which lays on every head
A hand like fire, striking the strong locks grey?
What name is named not save with shame and dread?
Once let us breathe it,—then no more for aye!
Kinsale! accursed be he, the first who bragg'd
‘A city stands where roam'd but late the flock;’
Accursed the day when, from the mountain dragg'd,
Thy corner-stone forsook the mother-rock!
 

The inexplicable disaster at Kinsale, when, after their marvellous winter march, the two great Northern chiefs of Tirconnell and Tyrone had succeeded in relieving their Spanish allies there, was one of those events upon which the history of a nation turns. We know little more than that it was a night-attack, the secret of which had been divulged by a deserter. O'Donnell took shipping for Spain, where he died before the promised aid was furnished, in the twenty-ninth year of his age, September 10, 1602. King Philip caused him to be buried in the Cathedral of Valladolid, and raised there a monument in his honour. O'Neill fought his way back to Ulster. Lord Mountjoy had repeatedly wasted the country, so that a terrible famine reigned. Every day O'Neill was more strictly hemmed in; while his allies deserted him and his retainers were starved. When the news arrived of the death of Red Hugh O'Donnell all hope was over. He agreed to the terms proposed to him by Mountjoy, surrendering his claims as a native prince, and engaging to resume his title as Earl of Tyrone. Several days previously the Queen had died; but Mountjoy had concealed this event. A few days later the ships of O'Neill's Spanish allies arrived. He sent them back.


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ROISIN DUBH.

DIRGE.

I

I am black but fair, and the robe I wear
Is dark as death;
My cheek is pale, and I bind my veil
With a cypress wreath.
Where the nightshades flower I build the bower
Of my secret rest:
O kind is sleep to the eyes that weep
And the bleeding breast.

II

My palace floor I tread no more;
No throne is mine;
No sceptre I hold, nor drink from gold
Of victory's wine;
Yet I rule a Queen in the worlds unseen
By Sassanach eye;
A realm I have in the hearts of the brave
And an empery.

TO NUALA IN ROME.

[_]

Nuala was the sister of Red Hugh, and of Roderick O'Donnell. The latter died an exile in Rome, A.D. 1608. Nuala left her husband, on his proving a traitor to his country, and clave to her brother. It was on finding her weeping at that brother's grave in S. Pietro Montorio, that O'Donnell's bard addressed to her the tragic ode well known through Clarence Mangan's translation: ‘O Woman of the Piercing Wail!’


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Thy shining eyes are vague with tears
Though seldom and unseen they flow;
The playmate of thy childish years—
My friend—at last lies low.
If I, thus late, thy love might win
Withheld for his sake, brief the gain;
I live in battle's ceaseless din:
Thou pinest in silent pain.
Nuala! exile, and the bread
By strangers doled thy cheek make pale;
On blue Lough Eirne that cheek was red,
In western Ruaidh's gale!
The high-neck'd stag looks down no more
From sunset cliffs upon thy path
In Doire. Not now thou tread'st the shore
By Aileach's royal Rath.
No more thou hear'st the sea-wind sing
O'er cairns where Ulster monarchs sleep;
The linnets of the Latian spring
They only make thee weep.
To thee no joy from domes enskied,
Or ruins of Imperial Rome;
Thou look'st beyond them, hungry-eyed,
T'ward thy far Irish home.
On green Tirconnell, now a waste,
The sighs of outcasts feed thine own;
Nuala! soon my clarion's blast
Shall drown that mingled moan.
In Spain they call us King and Prince,
And plight alliance, and betray;

77

In Rome, through clouds of frankincense
Slow dawns our better day.
To King or Kaiser, Prince or Pope
I sue not, nor to magic spell;
Nuala! on this sword my Hope
Stands like a God. Farewell!

THE ARRAIGNMENT;

OR, FIRST AND LAST.

Thus sang thy missioned Bard, O'Neill,
At James's Court a threatening guest,
When Ulster died. Round ranks of steel
Ran the sharp whisper ill suppressed.
Ho! space for Judgment! squire and groom!
Ho! place for Judgment—and a bier!
We bear a dead man to his tomb:
We ask for Judgment, not a tear.
Back, beaming eyes, and cloth of gold,
Back, plumes, and stars, and herald's gear,
Injustice crowned, and falsehood stoled!
There lies a lordlier pageant here!
Draw near, Sir King, and lay thy hand
Upon this dead man's breast! Draw near!
The accusing blood, at God's command,
Wells forth! The count is summed. Give ear!

78

Who, partner with a knave abhorred,
Farmed as his own that Traitor's feud?
Vicarious fought? By others' sword
Mangled a kingdom unsubdued?
Who reigned in great Religion's name,
Liegeman and Creedsman of the Pope?
Who vindicates his cleric claim
By schism and rapine, axe and rope?
Who reads by light of blazing roofs
His gospel new to Prince and Kerne?
Who tramples under horses' hoofs
A race expatriate, slow to learn?
From holy Ulster, last discrowned—
'Twas falsehood did the work, not war—
Who drives her sons by scourge and hound
To famished Connacht's utmost shore?
Beware false splendours brave to-day!
Unkingly King, and recreant peers!
Ye hold your prey; but not for aye:
The hour is yours: but ours the years!
 

Dermod, King of Leinster, A.D. 1170.


79

THE SUPPRESSION OF THE FAITH IN ULSTER.

A BARDIC ODE.

A.D. 1623.

[_]

Throughout Ulster, and in most parts of Ireland, it had been found impossible to carry the Penal Laws against the Catholic faith fully into effect until the reign of James I. The accession of that prince was hailed as the beginning of an era of liberty and peace. James had ever boasted himself a descendant of the ancient Milesian princes, had had frequent dealings with the Irish chiefs in their wars against Elizabeth, and was believed by them to be, at least in heart, devoted to the religion of his Mother. In the earlier part of his reign, though he refused to grant a legal toleration, he engaged that the Penal Laws should not be executed. In the year 1605 a proclamation was issued, commanding all Catholic priests to quit Ireland under the penalty of death. Next came the compulsory flight of Tirconnell and Tyrone, the Plantation of Ulster, and the swamping of the Irish Parliament by the creation of fictitious boroughs. In 1622 Archbishop Ussher preached before the new Deputy, Lord Faulkland, his celebrated sermon on the text, ‘He beareth not the sword in vain.’ The next year a new proclamation was published, commanding the departure of all the Catholic clergy, regular and secular, within forty days.

I.

Now we know that they are dead!
They, the Chiefs that kept from scaith
The northern land—the sentenced Faith—
Now we know that they are dead!

II.

Wrong, with Rapine in her leash,
Walk'd her ancient rounds afresh!
Law—late come—with leaden mace
Smites Religion in the face;—
But the spoiler first had place!

80

III.

Axes and hammers, hot work and hard!
From niche and from turret the Saints they cast;
The church stands naked as the churchyard;
The craftsman-army toils fiercely and fast:
They pluck from the altars the precious stones
As vultures pluck at a dead man's eyes;
Like wolves down-dragging the flesh from the bones
They strip the gold from the canopies.
They rifle the tombs; they melt the bells:
The foundry furnace bubbles and swells!—
Spoiler, for once thou hast err'd; what ho!
Thou hast loos'd this shaft from an ill-strung bow!
In that Faith thou wouldst strangle, thy Mother died!
Who slew her? The Usurper our chiefs defied!
Thy heart was with Rome in the days of old;
Thy counsel was ours; thy counsel and gold!

IV.

A ban went forth from the regal chambers,
From the Prince that courted us once with lies,
From the secular synods where he who clambers,
Not he that walks upright, receives the prize:
‘Go back to thy Judah, sad Prophet, go;
There wail thy wrong, and denounce thy woe;
But no longer in Bethel thy prophecy sing,
'Tis the chapel and court of Samaria's King!’
—Let England renounce her church at will,
The children of Erin are faithful still.
For a thousand years has that church been theirs:—
They are God's, not Cæsar's, the Creeds and Prayers!

81

V.

Thou that are haughty and full of bread,
The crown falls soon from the unwise head!
Who rear strange altars shall find anon
The lion thereby and sea-sand thereon!
In the deserts of penance they peak and pine
Till fulfilled are the days of the wrath divine.
Thy covenant make with the cave and the brier
For shelter by day and by night for fire;
When the bolt is launch'd at the craggy crest,
And the cedars flame round the eagle's nest!

VI.

A voice from the ocean waves,
And a voice from the forest glooms,
And a voice from old temples and kingly graves,
And a voice from the Catacombs!
It cries, the king that warreth
On religion and freedom entwined in one
Down drags in his blindness the fane, nor spareth
The noble's hall, nor the throne!
I saw in my visions the walls give way
Of the mystic Babylon;
I saw the gold Idol whose feet are clay
On his forehead lying prone;
I saw a sea-eagle defaced with gore
Flag wearily over the main;
But her nest on the cliff she reached no more
For the shaft was in her brain.
As when some strong man a stone uplifteth
And flingeth into floods far down,
So God, when the balance of Justice shifteth,
Down dasheth the despot's crown,

82

Down dasheth the realm that abused its trust,
And the nation that knew not pity,
And maketh the image of Power unjust
To vanish from out the city!

VII.

Wait, my country, and be wise;—
Thou art gall'd in head and breast,
Rest thou needest, sleep and rest;
Rest and sleep, and thou shalt rise
And tread down thine enemies.
That which God ordains is best;
That which God permits is good,
Though by man least understood.
Now His sword He gives to those
Who have wisdom won from woes;
In them fighting ends the strife:
At other times the impious priest
Slipping on his victim's blood
Falls in death on his own knife!
God is hard to 'scape! His ire!
Strikes the son if not the sire!
In a time, to God not long,
Thou shalt reckon with this wrong!
 

King James I.'s ‘Plantation of Ulster’ was the loss of Ireland to his son, and again to his grandson, and consequently the permanent loss to him and his of England.


83

KING CHARLES'S ‘GRACES.’

A.D. 1626.

I

Thus babble the strong ones, ‘The chain is slacken'd!
Ye can turn half round on your side to sleep!
With the thunder-cloud still your isle is blacken'd;
But it hurls no bolt upon tower or steep.
Ye are slaves in name: old laws proscribe you;
But the King is kindly, the Queen is fair;
They are knaves or fools who would goad or bribe you
A legal freedom to claim! Beware!’

II

We answer thus: our country's honour
To us is dear as our country's life!
That stigma the foul law casts upon her
Is the brand on the fame of a blameless wife!
Once more we answer: from honour never
Can safety long time be found apart:
The bondsman that vows not his bond to sever,
Is a slave by right and a slave in heart!

SIBYLLA IERNENSIS.

I

I dream'd. Great bells around me peal'd;
The world in that sad chime was drown'd;
Sharp cries as from a battle-field
Were strangled in that wondrous sound:

84

Had all the Kings of earth lain dead,
Had nations borne them lapp'd in lead
To torch-lit vaults with plume and pall,
Such bells had served for funeral.

II

'Twas work of phantasy! I slept
Where black Baltard o'erlooks the deep;
Plunging all night the billows kept
Their ghostly vigil round my sleep.
But I had fed on tragic lore
That day—your annals, ‘Masters Four!’
And every moan of wind and sea
Was as a funeral chime to me.

III

I woke. In vain the skylark sang
Above the breezy cliff; in vain
The golden iris flashed and swang
In hollows of the sea-pink plain.
As ocean shakes—no longer near—
The listening heart, and haunts the ear,
The Sibyl and that volume's spells
Pursued me with those funeral bells!

IV

The Irish Sibyl whispers slow
To one who pass'd her tardy Lent
In purple and fine linen, ‘Lo!
Thou would'st amend—but not repent!
Beware! Long prospers fearless crime;
Half courses bring the perilous time!
His way who changes, not his will,
Is strong no more, but guilty still.’

85

THE BALLAD OF ‘BONNY PORTMORE’;

OR, THE WICKED REVENGE.

A.D. 1641.

I

Shall I breathe it? Hush! 'twas dark:—
Silence!—few could understand:—
Needful deeds are done—not told.
In your ear a whisper! Hark!
'Twas a sworn, unwavering band
Marching through the midnight cold;
Rang the frost plain, stiff and stark:
By us, blind, the river rolled.

II

Silence! we were silent then:
Shall we boast and brag to-day?
Just deeds, blabbed, have found their price!
Snow made dumb the trusty glen;
Now and then a starry ray
Showed the floating rafts of ice:
Worked our oath in heart and brain:
Twice we halted: only twice.

III

When we reached the city wall
On their posts the warders slept:
By the moat the rushes plained:
Hush! I tell you part, not all!
Through the water-weeds we crept;
Soon the sleepers' tower was gained.
My sister's son a tear let fall—
Righteous deeds by tears are stained.

86

IV

Round us lay a sleeping city:
Had they wakened we had died:
Innocence sleeps well, they say.
Pirates, traitors, base banditti,
Blood upon their hands undried,
'Mid their spoils asleep they lay!
Murderers! Justice murders pity!
Night had brought their Judgment Day!

V

In the castle, here and there,
'Twixt us and the dawning East
Flashed a light, or sank by fits:
‘Patience, brothers! sin it were
Lords to startle at their feast,
Sin to scare the dancers' wits!’
Patient long in forest lair
The listening, fire-eyed tiger sits!

VI

O the loud flames upward springing!
O that first fierce yell within,
And, without, that stormy laughter!
Like rooks across a sunset winging
Dark they dashed through glare and din
Under rain of beam and rafter!
O that death-shriek heavenward ringing;
O that wondrous silence after!
The fire-glare showed, 'mid glaze and blister,
A boy's cheek wet with tears. 'Twas base!
That boy was firstborn of my sister;
Yet I smote him on the face!

87

Ah! but when the poplars quiver
In the hot noon, cold o'erhead,
Sometimes with a spasm I shiver;
Sometimes round me gaze with dread.
Ah! and when the silver willow
Whitens in the moonlight gale,
From my hectic, grassy pillow
I hear, sometimes, that infant's wail!
 

The name of an old Irish air.

THE INTERCESSION.

ULSTER.

A.D. 1641.


88

Iriel the Priest arose and said:
‘The just cause never shall prosper by wrong!
The ill cause battens on blood ill shed;
'Tis Virtue only makes Justice strong.
‘I have hidden the Sassanach's wife and child
Beneath the altar; behind the porch;
O'er them that believe not these hands have piled
The copes and the vestments of Holy Church!
‘I have hid three men in a hollow oak;
I have hid three maids in an ocean cave:’
As though he were lord of the thunder-stroke
The old Priest lifted his hand—to save.
But the people loved not the words he spake;
And their face was changed for their heart was sore:
They spake no word; but their brows grew black
And the hoarse halls roar'd like a torrent's roar.
‘Has the Stranger robb'd you of house and land?
In battle meet him and smite him down!
Has he sharpen'd the dagger? Lift ye the brand!
Has he bound your Princes? Set free the clown!
‘Has the Stranger his country and knighthood shamed?
Though he 'scape God's vengeance so shall not ye!
His own God chastens! Be never named
With the Mullaghmast slaughter! Be just and free!’
But the people received not the words he spake,
For the wrong on their heart had made it sore;

89

And their brows grew black like the stormy rack
And the hoarse halls roar'd like the wave-wash'd shore.
Then Iriel the Priest put forth a curse!
And horror crept o'er them from vein to vein;—
A curse upon man and a curse upon horse,
As forth they rode to the battle-plain.
And there never came to them luck or grace
No Saint in the battle-field help'd them more
Till O'Neill who hated the warfare base
Had landed at Doe on Tirconnell's shore.
 

Dr. Leland and other historians relate that the Catholic clergy frequently interfered for the protection of the victims of that massacre, which took place at an early period of the Ulster rising of 1641. They hid them beneath their altars. From the landing of Owen Roe O'Neill all such crimes ceased. They disgraced a just cause, and, doubtless, drew down a Divine punishment. A lamentable list of the massacres committed in the same year, at the other side—massacres less generally known—will be found in Cardinal Moran's ‘Persecutions suffered by the Catholics under Cromwell and the Puritans,’ p. 168. It is compiled from a contemporary record.

It was intended that Inisfail should represent in the main the songs of the old Irish Bards (if only they could have been preserved), as the best exponent of the Emotions and Imagination of the Race during the centuries of her affliction, but there must have been also many Priests, like Iriel, who were exponents not less true of the Conscience of that Race. To such may be attributed the counsels urged upon them in many parts of Inisfail, and especially towards its close, respecting the forgiveness of injuries, obedience to the Divine Will, Penitence, especially from p. 125 to p. 129 a Hope that nothing could subdue, and those trials connected with the day of Prosperity which are more dangerous than any which Adversity knows.

THE SILK OF THE KINE.

DIRGE OF RORY O'MORE.

A.D. 1642.

Up the sea-sadden'd valley at evening's decline
A heifer walks lowing; ‘the Silk of the Kine;’
From the deep to the mountain she roams, and again
From the mountain's green urn to the purple-rimm'd main.
Whom seek'st thou, sad Mother? Thine own is not thine!
He dropp'd from the headland; he sank in the brine.
'Twas a dream! but in dream at thy foot did he follow
Through the meadow-sweet on by the marish and mallow!

90

Was he thine? Have they slain him? Thou seek'st him, not knowing
Thyself too art theirs, thy sweet breath and sad lowing!
Thy gold horn is theirs; thy dark eye, and thy silk!
And that which torments thee, thy milk, is their milk!
'Twas no dream, Mother Land! 'Twas no dream, Inisfail!
Hope dreams, but grief dreams not—the grief of the Gael!
From Leix and Ikerren to Donegal's shore
Rolls the dirge of thy last and thy bravest—O'More!
 

One of the mystical names for Ireland used by the Bards.

THE BATTLE OF BENBURB.

A BARDIC ODE.

[_]

This battle was won by Owen Roe O'Neill over the Parliamentarian forces, A.D. 1646. The rebels left 3,423 of their dead on the field.

I.

At even I mused on the wrong of the Gael;—
A storm rushed beside me with war-blast not wail,
And the leaves of the forest plague-spotted and dead
Like a multitude broken before it fled;
Then I saw in my visions a host back driven
Ye clansmen be true, by a Chief from heaven!

II.

At midnight I gazed on the moonless skies;—
There glisten'd, supreme of star-blazonries,
A Sword all stars; then heaven, I knew,
Hath holy work for a sword to do:
Be true, ye clansmen of Nial! Be true!

91

III.

At morning I look'd as the sun uprose
On hills of Antrim late white with snows;
Was it morning only that dyed them red?
Martyr'd hosts, methought, had bled
On their sanguine ridges for years not few!
Ye clansmen of Conn, this day be true!

IV.

There is felt once more on the earth
The step of a kingly man:
Like a dead man hidden he lay from his birth,
Exiled from his country and clan:
This day his standard he flingeth forth;
He tramples the bond and ban:
Let them look in his face that usurp'd his hearth!
Let them vanquish him, they who can!
Owen Roe, our own O'Neill!
He treads once more our land!
The sword in his hand is of Spanish steel,
But the hand is an Irish hand!

V.

I saw in old time with these eyes that fail
The ship drop down Lough Swilly;
Lessening 'mid billows the snowy sail
Bent down like a storm-rock'd lily!

92

Far, far it bore them, those Sceptres old
That ruled o'er Ulster for ages untold,
The sceptre of Nial and the sceptre of Conn,
Thy Princes, Tirconnell and green Tyrone!
No freight like that since the mountain-pine
Left first the hills for the salt sea-brine!
Down sank on the ocean a blood-red sun
As westward they drifted, when hope was none,
With their priests and their children o'er ocean's foam
And every archive of house and home:
Amid the sea-surges their bards sang dirges:
God rest their bones in their graves at Rome!
Owen Roe, our own O'Neill!
He treads once more our land!
The sword in his hand is of Spanish steel,
But the hand is an Irish hand!

VI.

I saw in old time through the drifts of the snow
A shepherdless People dash'd to and fro,
With hands toss'd up in the wintry air,
With the laughter of madness or shriek of despair.
Dispersed is the flock when the shepherd lies low:
The sword was of parchment: a lie was the blow:

93

What is Time? I can see the rain beat the white hair,
And the sleet that defaces the face that was fair,
As onward they stagger o'er mountain and moor
From the Ardes and Rathlin to Corrib's bleak shore:
I can hear the babe weep in the pause of the wind—
‘To Connaught!’ The bloodhounds are baying behind!—
Owen Roe, our own O'Neill!
He treads once more our land!
The sword in his hand is of Spanish steel,
But the hand is an Irish hand!

VII.

Visions no more of the dreadful past!
The things that I long'd for are mine at last!
I see them and hold them with heart and eyes;
On Irish ground, under Irish skies,
An Irish army, clan by clan,
The standard of Ulster on leading the van!
Each chief with his clansmen, tried men like steel;
Unvanquish'd Maolmora, Cormac the leal!
And the host that meets them right well I know,
The psalm-singing boors of that Scot, Munro!
—We hated you, Barons of the Pale!
But now sworn friends are Norman and Gael;
For both the old foes are of lineage old,
And both the old Faith and old manners hold.
Montgomery, Conway! base-born crew!
This day ye shall learn an old lesson anew!
Thou art red with sunset this hour, Blackwater
But twice ere now thou wert red with slaughter!
Another O'Neill by the ford they met;
And ‘the bloody loaming’ men name it yet!

94

Owen Roe, our own O'Neill!
He treads once more our land!
The sword in his hand is of Spanish steel!
But the hand is an Irish hand!

VIII.

The storm of the battle rings out! On! on!
Shine well in their faces, thou setting sun!
The smoke grows crimson: from left to right
Swift flashes the spleenful and racing light:
The horses stretch forward with belly to ground:
On! on! like a lake which has burst its bound!
Through the clangour of brands rolls the laughter of cannon:
Wind-borne it shall reach thine old walls, Dungannon!
Armagh's grey Minster shall chant again
To-morrow at vespers an ancient strain!
On, on! This night on thy banks, Loch Neagh
Men borne in bondage shall couch them free!
On, warriors launch'd by a warrior's hand!
Four years ye were leash'd in a brazen band;
He counted your bones, and he meted your might,
This hour he dashes you into the fight!
Strong sun of the battle, great Chief whose eye
Wherever it gazes makes victory,
This hour thou shalt see them do or die!
—They form: there stand they one moment, still!
Now, now, they charge under banner and sign:
They breast unbroken the slope of the hill,
It breaks before them, the Invaders' line!
Their horse and their foot are crush'd together
Like harbour-locked ships in the winter weather,
Each dash'd upon each, the churn'd wave strewing

95

With wreck upon wreck, and ruin on ruin.
The spine of their battle gives way with a yell:
Down drop their standards: that cry was their knell!
Some on the bank and some in the river
Struggling they lie that shall rally never.
'Twas God fought for us! with hands of might
From on high He kneaded and shaped the fight!
To Him be the praise! What He wills must be:
With Him is the future: for blind are we!
Let Ormond at will make terms or refuse them!
Let Charles the Confederates win or lose them;
Unbind the old Faith and annul the old strife,
Or cheat us, and forfeit his kingdom and life!
Come hereafter what must or may
Ulster, thy cause is avenged to-day:
What fraud took from us and force, the sword
That strikes in daylight makes ours, restored!
Owen Roe, our own O'Neill!
He treads once more our land!
The sword in his hand is of Spanish steel,
But the hand is an Irish hand!
 

In 1607 a conspiracy, never proved, and probably never undertaken, was suddenly charged against Tyrone and Tirconnell. To avoid arrest the two earls, whose enforced submission had rendered them helpless, embarked on board a ship that chanced to have anchored in Lough Swilly. They found refuge in Rome, where their tombs are shown to the traveller in the church of San Pietro, on the Janiculan Hill.

The Four Masters thus record the tragedy:—‘They embarked on the festival of Holy Cross, in autumn. This was a princely company: and it is certain that the sea has not borne and the wind has not wafted in modern times a number of persons in one ship more eminent, illustrious, or noble in race, heroic deeds, valour, feats of arms, and brave achievements than they. Would that God had but permitted them to remain in their patrimonial inheritance until the children had arrived at the age of manhood! Woe to the heart that meditated, woe to the counsel that recommended the project of this expedition!’

TRADITOR ISTE.

A WAIL.

I

Can it be, can it be? Can our Great One be Traitor?
Can the child of her greatest be faithless to Eire?

96

The clown and the stranger have wronged—let them hate her!
Old Thomond well knows them; they hate her for hire!
Can a brave man be leagued with the rebels and ranters
'Gainst his faith, and his country, his king, and his race,
Can he bear the low moanings, the curses, the banters?—
There's a scourge worse than these—the applause of the base!

II

Was the hand that set fire to the Churches descended
From his hand who upreared them—the strong hand, the true?
When the blood of the People and Priesthood ran blended
Who was it looked on, and cried, ‘Spare them not’? Who?
Some Fury o'erruled thee! Some root thou hadst eaten!
'Twas a Demon that stalked in thy shape. 'Twas not thou!
Not tears of the Angels that blood-stain can sweeten;
That Cain-mark not death can erase from thy brow!

97

DIRGE OF OWEN ROE O'NEILL.

A.D. 1649.

So, 'tis over! Lift the dead!
Bear him to his place of rest,
Broken heart, and blighted head:
Lay the Cross upon his breast.
There be many die too late;
Here is one that died too soon:
'Twas not Fortune—it was Fate
After him that cast her shoon.
Toll the church bells slowly: toll!
God this day is wroth with Eire:
Seal the book, and fold the scroll;
Crush the harp, and burst the wire.
Lords and priests, ye talked and talked
In Kilkenny's Council Hall;
But this man whose game ye baulked
Was the one man 'mong you all!
'Twas not in the field he fell!
Sing his requiem, dark-stoled choir!
Let a nation sound his knell:
God this day is wroth with Eire!
 

The conqueror of Benburb died (by poison as was believed at the time) just after he and Ormond had concluded terms for joint action against Cromwell. Had he not been summoned to Kilkenny when on the point of following up the victory of Benburb, the Puritan army must, within a few days, have been driven out of Ulster.


98

THE BISHOP OF ROSS.

A.D. 1650.

They led him to the peopled wall:
‘Thy sons!’ they said, ‘are those within!
If at thy word their standards fall,
Thy life and freedom thou shalt win!’
Then spake that warrior Bishop old,
‘Remove these chains that I may bear
My crosier staff and cope of gold:
My judgment then will I declare.’
They robed him in his robes of state:
They set his mitre on his head:
On tower and gate was silence great:
The hearts that loved him froze with dread.
He spake: ‘Right holy is your strife!
Fight for your Country, King, and Faith.
I taught you to be true in life:
I teach you to be true in death.
‘A priest apart by God is set
To offer prayer and sacrifice:
And he is sacrificial yet
The pontiff for his flock who dies.’
Ere yet he fell, his hand on high
He raised, and benediction gave;
Then sank in death, content to die:
Thy great heart, Erin, was his grave.

99

DIRGE.

A.D. 1652.

I

Whose were they those voices? What footsteps came near me?
Can the dead to the living draw nigh and be heard?
I wept in my sleep; but ere morning to cheer me
Came a breeze from the woodland, a song from the bird.
O sons of my heart! the long-hair'd, the strong-handed!
Your phantoms rush by me with war-cry and wail:
Ye too for your Faith and your Country late banded
My sons by adoption, mail'd knights of the Pale!

II

Is there sorrow, O ye that pass by, like my sorrow?
Of the Kings I brought forth there remaineth not one!
Each day is dishonour'd; disastrous each morrow:
In the yew-wood I couch till the daylight is done.
At midnight I lean from the cliff o'er the waters,
And hear, as the thunder comes up from the sea
Your moanings, my sons, and your wailings, my daughters:
With the sea-dirge they mix not: they clamour to me!

100

THE WHEEL OF AFFLICTION.

Bright is the Dream-land of them that weep;
Of the outcast head on the mountains bare:
Thy Saints, O Eire, I have seen in sleep;
Thy Queens on the battle-plain, fierce yet fair.
Three times I dreamed on Tyrawley's shore:
Through ranks of the Vanished I paced a mile:
On the right stood Kings, and their crowns they wore:
On the left stood Priests without gold or guile.
But the vision I saw when the deep I crossed,
When I crossed from Iorras to Donegal
By night on the vigil of Pentecost
Was the saddest vision yet best of all.
From the sea to the sky a Wheel rolled round:
It breathed a blast on the steadfast stars;
'Twas huge as that circle with marvels wound—
The marvels that reign o'er the Calendars.
Then an Angel spake, ‘That Wheel is Earth;
It grinds the wheat of the Bread of God:’
And the Angel of Eire, with an Angel's mirth,
‘The mill-stream from Heaven is the Martyrs' blood.’

EPILOGUE.

Like dew from above it fell, from beyond the limits of ether;
From above the courses of stars, and the thrones of angelical choirs;

101

‘If God afflicts the Land, then God of a surety is with her;
Her heart-drops counts like beads, and walks with her through the fires.
‘Time, and a Time, and Times! Earth's noblest birth was her latest:
That latest birth was Man; his flesh her Redeemer wears:
Time, and a Time, and Times! one day the least shall be greatest:
In glory God reaps, but sows below in the valley of tears.’
It was no Seraph's song nor the spheral chime of creation,
That Voice! To earth it stooped as a cloud to the ocean flood:
It had ascended in sighs from the anguished heart of a nation;—
The musical echo came back from the boundless bosom of God.