The Poems of J. J. Callanan :: :: University of Virginia Library

That the Roman Catholics of Ireland should have been Jacobites almost to a man, is little wonderful; indeed the wonder would be were it otherwise. They had lost everything fighting for the cause of the Stuarts, and the conquerors had made stern use of the victory. But while various movements in favour of that unhappy family were made in England and Scotland, Ireland was quiet; not indeed from want of inclination, but from want of power. The Roman Catholics were disarmed throughout the entire land, and the, Protestants, who retained a fierce hatred of the exiled family, were armed and united. The personal influence of the Earl of Chesterfield, who was Lord Lieutenant in 1745, and who made himself very popular, is generally supposed to have contributed to keep Ireland at peace in that dangerous year, but the reason I have assigned is perhaps more substantial.

But though Jacobitical, even those songs will suffice to prove, that it was not out of love for the Stuarts that they were anxious to take up arms, but to revenge themselves on the Saxons (that is, the English generally, but in Ireland the Protestants), for the defeat they experienced in the days of William III., and the subsequent depression of their party and their religion. James II. is universally spoken of by the lower orders of Ireland with the utmost contempt, and distinguished by an appellation which is too strong for ears polite, but which is universally given him. His celebrated expression at the battle of the Boyne—“O spare my English subjects,” being taken in the most perverse sense, instead of obtaining for him the praise of wishing to show some lenity to those whom he still considered as rightfully under his sceptre, even in opposition

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to his cause, was, by his Irish partizans, construed into a desire of preferring the English, on all occasions, to them. The celebrated reply of the captive officer to William, that “if the armies changed generals, victory would take a different side,” is carefully remembered; and every misfortune that happened in the war of the Revolution is laid to the charge of James's want of courage. The truth is, he appears to have displayed little of the military qualities which distinguished him in former days.

The first of these three songs is a great favorite, principally from its beautiful air. I am sure there is scarcely a peasant in the south of Ireland who has not heard it. The second is the White Cockade, of which the first verse is English. The third is (at least in Irish), a strain of higher mood, and from its style and language, evidently written by a man of more than ordinary information.

O SAY MY BROWN DRIMIN.

A Drimin dówn dílis no síoda na mbo.

[_]

(Drimin is the favourite name of a cow, by which Ireland is here allegorically denoted. The five ends of Erin are the five Kingdoms;—Munster, Leinster, Ulster, Connaught, and Meath, into which the island was divided under the Milesian dynasty.)

O say, my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kine,
Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of thy line?
Too deep and too long is the slumber they take,
At the loud call of freedom why don't they awake?

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My strong ones have fallen—from the bright eye of day,
All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay;
The cold turf is o'er them;—they hear not my cries,
And since Louis no aid gives I cannot arise.

O! where art thou Louis, our eyes are on thee?
Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the sea?
In freedom's last strife if you linger or quail
No morn e'er shall break on the night of the Gael.

But should the King's son, now bereft of his right,
Come proud in his strength for his Country to fight,
Like leaves on the trees, will new people arise,
And deep from their mountains shout back to my cries.

When the Prince, now an exile, shall come for his own,
The isles of his father, his rights and his throne,
My people in battle the Saxons will meet,
And kick them before, like old shoes from their feet.

O'er mountains and valleys they'll press on their rout,
The five ends of Erin shall ring to their shout;
My sons all united shall bless the glad day,
When the flint-hearted Saxons they've chased far away.

Silk of the Cows—an idiomatic expression for the most beautiful of cattle, which I have preserved in translating.

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THE WHITE COCKADE.

Taid mo gra fir fi breataib du.

King Charles he is King James's son,
And from a royal line is sprung;
Then up with shout, and out with blade,
And we'll raise once more the white cockade.
O! my dear, my fair-hair'd youth,
Thou yet hast hearts of fire and truth;
Then up with shout, and out with blade,
We'll raise once more the white cockade.

My young men's hearts are dark with woe,
On my virgins' cheeks the grief-drops flow,
The sun scarce lights the sorrowing day,
Since our rightful prince went far away.
He's gone, the stranger holds his throne,
The royal bird far off is flown:
But up with shout, and out with blade—
We'll stand or fall with the white cockade.

No more the cuckoo hails the spring,
The woods no more with the staunch-hounds ring;
The song from the glen so sweet before,
Is hush'd since our Charles has left our shore.

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The Prince is gone: but he soon will come,
With trumpet sound and with beat of drum,
Then up with shout, and out with blade;
Huzza for the right and the white cockade.

THE AVENGER.

Dà bfeacin se'n la sin bo seàsta bfeic m'intin.

O Heavens! if that long-wished-for morning I spied,
As high as three kings I'd leap up in my pride;
With transport I'd laugh, and my shout should arise,
As the fires from each mountain blazed bright to the skies.

The Avenger shall lead us right on to the foe,
Our horns should sound out, and our trumpets should blow;
Ten thousand huzzas should ascend to high heaven,
When our Prince was restored, and our fetters were riven.

O! Chieftains of Ulster, when will you come forth,
And send your strong cry to the winds of the north?
The wrongs of a King call aloud for your steel,—
Red stars of the battle—O'Donnel, O'Neal!

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Bright house of O'Connor, high offspring of kings,
Up, up, like the eagle, when heavenward he springs!
O, break ye once more from the Saxon's strong rule,
Lost race of Mac Murchad, O'Byrne, and O'Toole!

Momonia of Druids—green dwelling of song!—
Where, where are thy minstrels? why sleep they so long?
Does no bard live to wake, as they oft did before,
M`Carthy,—O'Brien,—O'Sullivan More?

O come from your hills, like the waves to the shore,
When the storm-girded headland are mad with the roar!
Ten thousand hurras shall ascend to high heaven,
When our Prince is restor'd and our fetters are riven.

[_]

The names, in this last song, are those of the principal families in Ireland, many of whom, however, were decided enemies to the house of Stuart. The reader cannot fail to observe the strange expectation which these writers entertained of the nature of the Pretender's designs: they call on him not to come to reinstate himself on the throne of his fathers, but to aid them in doing vengeance on “the flint-hearted Saxon.” Nothing, however, could be more natural. The Irish Jacobites, at least the Roman Catholics, were in the habit of claiming the Stuarts as of the Milesian line, fondly deducing them from Fergus, and the Celts of Ireland. Who the avenger is, whose arrival is prayed for in the last song, I am not sure, but circumstances, too tedious to be detailed, make me think that the date of the song is 1708, when a general impression prevailed that the field would be taken in favour of the Pretender, under a commander of more weight and authority than had come forward before. His name was kept a secret. Very little has been written on the history of the Jacobites of Ireland, and yet I

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think it would be an interesting subject. We have now arrived at a time when it could be done, without exciting any angry feelings.

In Momonia, (Munster,) Druidism appears to have flourished most, as we may conjecture, from the numerous remains of Druidical workmanship, and the names of places indicating that worship. The records of the province are the best kept of any in Ireland, and it has proverbially retained among the peasantry a character for superior learning.

THE LAMENT OF O'GNIVE.

[_]

(Fearflatha O'Gniamh was family Olamh, or Bard, to the O'Neil of Clanoboy about the year 1556. The Poem, of which the following lines are the translation, commences with “Ma thruagh mar ataid' Goadhil.”)

How dimm'd is the glory that circled the Gael,
And fall'n the high people of green Inisfail;
The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore;
And the mighty of nations is mighty no more!

Like a bark on the ocean, long shattered and tost,
On the land of your fathers at length you are lost;
The hand of the spoiler is stretched on your plains,
And you're doom'd from your cradles to bondage and chains.

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O where is the beauty that beam'd on thy brow?
Strong hand in the battle! how weak art thou now;
That heart is now broken that never would quail,
And thy high songs are turned into weeping and wail.

Bright shades of our sires! from your home in the skies
O blast not your sons with the scorn of your eyes!
Proud spirit of Gollam how red is thy cheek,
For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are weak!

O'Neil of the hostages, Con whose high name,
On a hundred red battles has floated to fame,
Let the long grass still sigh undisturbed o'er thy sleep;
Arise not to shame us, awake not to weep.

In thy broad wing of darkness enfold us, O night;
Withhold, O bright sun, the reproach of thy light;
For freedom or valour no more canst thou see,
In the home of the Brave, in the isle of the Free.

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Affliction's dark waters your spirits have bow'd,
And oppression hath wrapped all your land in its shroud,
Since first from the Brehon's pure justice you stray'd,
And bent to the laws the proud Saxon has made.

We know not our country, so strange is her face;
Her sons once her glory are now her disgrace;
Gone, gone is the beauty of fair Innisfail,
For the stranger now rules in the land of the Gael.

Where, where are the woods that oft rung to your cheer,
Where you waked the wild chase of the wolf and the deer?
Can those dark heights with ramparts all frowning and riven,
Be the hills where your forests wav'd brightly in Heaven?

O bondsmen of Egypt! no Moses appears
To light your dark steps thro' this desert of tears;
Degraded and lost ones, no Hector is nigh
To lead you to freedom, or teach you to die!

Innisfail—the Island of Destiny, one of the names of Ireland.

Gollamh—A name of Milesius, the Spanish progenitor of the Irish O's and Macs.

Nial—of the Nine Hostages, the Heroic Monarch of Ireland, in the 4th century—and ancestor of the O'Neil family.

Con Cead Catha—Con of the Hundred Fights, monarch of the Island in the 2nd century; although the fighter of a hundred battles, he was not the victor of a hundred fields;—his valorous rival, Owen, King of Munster, compelled him to a division of the Kingdom.

Brehons—The hereditary judges of the Irish septs.

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ON THE LAST DAY.

Oh! after life's dark sinful way,
How shall I meet that dreadful day,
When heaven's red blaze spreads frightfully
Above the hissing with'ring sea,—
And earth thro' all her regions reels,
With the strong—shiv'ring fear she feels.

When that high trumpet's awful sound,
Shall send its deep-voiced summons round,—
And starting from their long, cold sleep,
The living-dead shall wildly leap!
Oh! by the painful path you trod,
Have mercy then—my Lord! my God!

Oh! thou who on that hill of blood,
Beside thy Son in anguish stood;—
Thou, who above this life of ill,
Art the bright star to guide us still;
Pray that my soul, its sins forgiv'n,
May find some lonely home in heav'n.

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A LAY OF MIZEN HEAD.

[_]

The subject of the “Lay of Mizen Head,” was the wreck of the Confiance, sloop of war, lost April, 1822, about a mile west of Mizen Head. All on board perished; among the rest many young midshipmen who had just joined the service and were going to join their respective ships.

It was the noon of Sabbath, the spring-wind swept the sky,
And o'er the heaven's savannah blue the boding scuds did fly,
And a stir was heard amongst the waves o'er all their fields of might,
Like the distant hum of hurrying hosts when they muster for the fight.

The fisher marked the changing heaven and high his pinnace drew,
And to her wild and rocky home the screaming sea-bird flew;
But safely in Cork haven the sheltered bark may rest
Within the zone of ocean hills that girds its beauteous breast.

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Amongst the stately vessels in that calm port was one
Whose streamers waved out joyously to hail the Sabbath sun;
And scattered o'er her ample deck were careless hearts and free,
That laughed to hear the rising wind and mocked the frowning sea.

One youth alone bent darkly above the heaving tide—
His heart was with his native hills and with his beauteous bride,
And with the rush of feelings deep his manly bosom strove,
As he thought of her he had left afar in the spring-time of their love.

What checks the seaman's jovial mirth and clouds his sunny brow?
Why does he look with troubled gaze from port-hole, side, and prow?
A moment—'twas a death-like pause—that signal! can it be?
That signal quickly orders out the Confiance to sea.

Then there was springing up aloft and hurrying down below,
And the windlass hoarsely answered to the hoarse and wild “heave yo,”

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And vows were briefly spoken then that long had silent lain,
And hearts and lips together met that ne'er may meet again.

Now darker lowered the threatening sky and wilder heaved the wave,
And through the cordage fearfully the wind began to rave,
The sails are set, the anchor weighed—what recks that gallant ship?
Blow on! Upon her course she springs like greyhound from the slip.

O heavens! it was a glorious sight that stately ship to see
In the beauty of her gleaming sails and her pennant floating free,
As to gale with bending tops she made her haughty bow,
And proudly spurned the waves that burned around her flashing prow!

The sun went down and through the clouds looked out the evening star,
And westward from old Ocean's head beheld that ship afar.

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Still onward fearlessly she flew in her snowy pinion-sweep,
Like a bright and beauteous spirit o'er the mountains of the deep.

[OMITTED] [OMITTED]

It blows a fearful tempest—'tis the dead watch of the night—
The Mizen's giant brow is streaked with red and angry light—
And by its far-illuming glance a struggling bark I see.
Wear, wear, the land, ill-fated one is close beneath your lee!

Another flash—they still hold out for home and love and life,
And under close-reefed topsail maintain the unequal strife.
Now out the rallying foresail flies, the last, the desperate chance—
Can that be she?—Oh heavens it is—the luckless Confiance!

Hark! heard you not that dismal cry? 'Twas stifled in the gale—
Oh! clasp, young bride, thine orphan child and raise the widow's wail!
The morning rose in purple light o'er ocean's tranquil sleep—
But o'er their gallant quarry lay the spoilers of the deep.

The old head of Kinsale. Such is the meaning of the Irish name.

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THE LAMENT OF KIRKE WHITE.

'Twas evening, and the sun's last golden beam
On that sad chamber cast its farewell gleam,
Then sunk, to him for ever. Yet one streak
Of lingering radiance lit his faded cheek.
His hand was prest to his pale clouded brow,
Where sat a spirit that might break, not bow,
And the cold starry lustre of his eye,
Than inspiration's scarce less purely high,
Seemed, through the mist of one o'ermastering tear,
The herald of the minstrel's loftier sphere.
On a small table by the sufferer's bed
The sybil leaves of song were rudely spread.
His sad eye wandered with a dark delight
O'er scattered gleams of many a thought of light;
And pride could not suppress one low deep sigh,
To think when he was gone they too must die.

Fame long had wooed him with her sunny smile
To tread her paths of glory and of toil.
His was the wreath that many vainly seek;
His the proud temple on the mountain peak—
But the vile shaft from some ignoble string
Brought down to earth the minstrel's soaring wing.

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They little knew, who dealt the dastard stroke,
The mind they clouded and the heart they broke.

He thought of home and mother—dearer far,
He thought of her, his far-off, beauteous star.
He loved, it may be madly, but too well,
One whom he may not breathe, and dare not tell.
He could not boast the line of which he came,
Of lofty title, honour, wealth, or fame.
Hemmed in by adverse fate his fiery soul
Like prisoned eagle felt its dark control—
Give but his spirit scope—to win that hand
His pilgrim foot had trod earth's farthest land.
He would have courted danger on the deep,
Or 'mid the battle's desolating sweep—
All, all endured, unblenching gaged even life
For one sweet word, to call that dear one wife.

What now had woman left to gaze upon?
Himself a wreck, his bright hopes quenched and gone—
Some thus would live, the lightning of his mind
Shivered his frame, and left him with mankind
Scathed and lone, yet stood he fearlessly
On the last wave-mark of eternity,
And as above its shoreless waste he hung,
Thus to his harp's low tone the minstrel sung:—

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THE LAMENT.

Awake, my lyre, though to thy lay no voice of gladness sings,
Ere yet the viewless power be fled that oft hath swept thy strings;
I feel the flickering flame of life grow cold within my breast,
Yet once again, my lyre, awake, and then I sink to rest.

And must I die? Then let it be, since thus 'tis better far,
Than with the world and conquering fate to wage eternal war.
Come then thou dark and dreamless sleep, to thy cold clasp I fly
From shattered hopes and blighted heart, and pangs that cannot die.

Yet would I live, for, oh! at times I feel the tide of song
In swells of light come strong and bright my heaving heart along;
Yet would I live, in happier day, to wake with master hand,
A lay that should embalm my name in Albin's beauteous land.

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Oh had I been in battle field amid the charging brave,
I then had won a soldier's fame or filled a soldier's grave;
I then had lived to call thee mine, thou all of bliss to me,
Or smiled in death, my sweetest one, to think I died for thee.

'Tis past, they've won—my sun has set—I see my coming night,
I never more shall press that hand or meet that look of light.
Among old Albin's future bards no song of mine shall rise.
Go, sleep, my harp, for ever sleep, go, leave me to my sighs!

They've won, but, Mary, from this breast thy love they could not part,
All freshly green it lingers round the ruin of my heart.
One thought of me may cloud thy soul, one tear may dim thine eye,
That I have sung and loved in vain, forsaken thus to die!

O England, O my country, despite of all my wrongs,
I love thee still my native land, thou land of sweetest songs,
One thought still cheers my life's last close, that I shall rest in thee,
And sleep as minstrel heart should sleep, among the brave and free.

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LINES WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY,

Who, in the Author's presence, had taxed the Irish with Want of Gallantry, proving her position by the fact of their not serenading as the Italians, &c., do.

Yes, lady, 'tis true in our cold rugged isle
Love seldom puts on him his warm sunny smile.
No youth from his boat or the orange-tree shade,
Sings at eve to his lady the sweet serenade.
Yet 'tis not that Erin has daughters less fair
Than Italy's maids with their dark-flowing hair;
And 'tis not the souls of her sons are less brave
Than the gay gondoliers' on Neapoli's wave.
Saw you not when his country her banner displayed,
And 'mid victory's glad shout on high flashed her blade,
How that lover so true with his sprightly guitar
Grew pale at the first blast of liberty's war?
Saw you not how, when prostrate yon eagle was hurled,
Whose proud flight of conquest would compass the world,
Our Erin reared o'er it her green flag on high,
And the shouts of her victor sons pealed in the sky?
Thus though scorned and rejected, long, long may they prove
The strongest in fight and the fondest in love!

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STANZAS, Composed, probably, after he had left for Lisbon, to Erin.

Still green is thy mountains and bright is thy shore,
And the voice of thy fountains is heard as of yore:
The sun o'er thy valleys, dear Erin, shines on,
Though thy bard and thy lover for ever is gone.

Nor shall he, an exile, thy glad scenes forget,
The friends fondly loved, ne'er again to be met—
The glens where he mused on the deeds of his nation,
And waked his young harp with a wild inspiration.

Still, still, though between us may roll the broad ocean,
Will I cherish thy name with the same deep devotion;
And though minstrels more brilliant my place may supply,
None loves you more fondly, more truly than I.

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LINES TO MISS O. D---

Who had replied, to some questions of Mr. C.'s about verses, that she “Was getting Sense, she would Write no More.”

You're “getting sense,” you'll “write no more!”
The sweet delusive dream is o'er,
And fancy's bright and meteor ray
Is but a light that leads astray.
No more the wreath of song you'll twine,
Calm reason, common sense be thine!

As well command the troubled sky,
When winds are loud and waves are high;
As well call back the parted soul,
Or force the needle from the pole,
False to the star it loved so long—
As turn the poet's heart from song.

If aught be true that minstrel deems
Of sister spirit in his dreams—
The still pale brow's expression high—
The silent eloquence of eye,
Its fitful flashes bright and wild—
Thou art and must be fancy's child.

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And reason, sense—are they confined
To the austere and cold of mind?
Must thoughtless folly still belong
To those who haunt the paths of song,
And o'er this vale of woe and tears
Pour the sweet strain of happier spheres?

No, lady, still let fancy spring
On her own wild and wayward wing;
Still let the fire of genius glow,
And the strong tide of feeling flow;
The bright imaginings of youth
Are but the Titian tints of truth.

When chill November sweeps along
With its own hoarse and sullen song,
And withered lies the autumn's pride,
And every flower you nursed hath died;
Whilst other hearts in ennui pine,
The poet's raptures shall be thine.

Then gaze upon the lightning's flash
And listen to the wild wave's dash—
Others may tremble at their tone,
Not thou—their language is thine own;
Mark how the seagull wings his way
Through billow's foam and wintry spray,
With tireless wing and joyous cry
Proclaims its ocean liberty!

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Yes, my young friend, if I may claim
For humble bard so dear a name,
Still let thy heart revere the lyre,
Still let thy hands awake its fire,
Walk in the light that God hath given,
And make Dunmanus' wilds a heaven.

For me, believe, where'er I stray
Through life's uncertain, toilsome way,
Whether calm peace my lot may be,
Or tossed on fortune's stormy sea,
I'll think upon the young, the fair,
The kind warm hearts that met me there.

LINES TO ERIN.

When dullness shall chain the wild harp that would praise thee,
When its last sigh of freedom is heard on thy shore,
When its raptures shall bless the false heart that betrays thee,
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!

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When thy sons are less tame than their own ocean waters,
When their last flash of wit and of genius is o'er,
When virtue and beauty forsake thy young daughters,
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!

When the sun that now holds his bright path o'er thy mountains
Forgets the green fields that he smiled on before,
When no moonlight shall sleep on thy lakes and thy fountains,
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!

When the name of the Saxon and tyrant shall sever,
When the freedom you lost you no longer deplore,
When the thoughts of your wrongs shall be sleeping for ever,
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more!

WELLINGTON'S NAME.

How blest were the moments when liberty found thee
The first in her cause on the fields of the brave,
When the young lines of ocean were charging around thee
With the strength of their hills and the roar of their wave!

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Oh, chieftain, what then was the throb of thy pride,
When loud through the war-cloud exultingly came,
O'er the battle's red tide, which they swelled as they died,
The shout of green Erin for Wellington's name.

How sweet, when thy country thy garland was wreathing,
And the fires of thy triumph blazed brightly along,
Came the voice of its harp all its witchery breathing,
And hallowed thy name with the light of her song!

And oh, 'twas a strain in each patriot breast
That waked all the transport, that lit all the flame,
And raptured and blest was the Isle of the West
When her own sweetest bard sang her Wellington's name!

But 'tis past—thou art false, and thy country's sad story
Shall tell how she bled and she pleaded in vain;
How the arm that should lead her to freedom and glory,
The child of her bosom did rivet her chain!

Yet think not for ever her vengeance shall sleep,
Wild harp that once praised him, sing louder his shame,
And where'er o'er the deep thy free numbers may sweep,
Bear the curse of a nation on Wellington's name!

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THE EXILE'S FAREWELL.

SONG.

Adieu, my own dear Erin,
Receive my fond, my last adieu;
I go, but with me bearing
A heart still fondly turned to you.

The charms that nature gave thee
With lavish hand, shall cease to smile,
And the soul of friendship leave thee,
E'er I forget my own green isle.

Ye fields where heroes bounded
To meet the foes of liberty;
Ye hills that oft resounded
The joyful shouts of victory,

Obscured is all your glory,
Forgotten all your former fame,
And the minstrel's mournful story
Now calls a tear at Erin's name.

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But still the day may brighten
When those tears shall cease to flow,
And the shout of freedom lighten
Spirits now so drooping low.

Then should the glad breeze blowing
Convey the echo o'er the sea,
My heart with transport glowing
Shall bless the hand that made thee free.

SONG.

[Awake thee, my Bessy, the morning is fair]

[_]

air.—“Laddie of Buchan.”

Awake thee, my Bessy, the morning is fair,
The breath of young roses is fresh on the air,
The sun has long glanced over mountain and lake,
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake.

Oh come whilst the flowers are still wet with the dew,
I'll gather the fairest, my Bessy, for you,
The lark poureth forth his sweet strain for thy sake,
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake.

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The hare from her soft bed of heather hath gone,
The coote to the water already hath flown—
There is life on the mountain and joy on the lake,
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake.

DE LA VIDA DEL CIELO.

[OF HEAVENLY LIFE.]

[_]

(From the Spanish of Luis de Leon.)

Clime for ever fair and bright,
Cloudless region of the blest,
Summer's heat or winter's blight
Comes not o'er thy fields of light,
Yielder of endless joy and home of endless rest.

There his flock whilst fondly tending,
All unarmed with staff or sling,
Flowers of white and purple blending
O'er his brow of beauty bending,
The heavenly Shepherd walks thy breathing fields of spring.

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Still his look of love reposes
On the happy sheep he feeds
With thine own undying roses,
Flowers no clime but thine discloses;
And still the more they feast more freshly bloom thy meads.

To thy hills in glory blushing
Next his charge the Shepherd guides,
And in streams all sorrow hushing,
Streams of life in gladness gushing,
His happy flock he bathes and their high food provides.

And when sleep their eye encumbers
In the noontide radiance strong,
With his calumet's sweet numbers
Lulls them in delicious slumbers,
And rapt in holy dreams they hear that 'trancing song.

At that pipe's melodious sounding,
Thrilling joys transfix the soul,
And in visions bright surrounding
Up the ardent spirit bounding,
Springs on her pinion free to love's eternal goal.

Minstrel of heaven, if earthward stealing
This ear might catch thy faintest tone,
Then would thy voice's sweet revealing
Drown my soul with holiest feeling
And this weak heart that strays, at length be all thine own.

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Then with a joy that knows no speaking,
I would wait thy smile on yon high shore,
And from earth's vile bondage breaking
Thy bright home, good Shepherd, seeking,
Live with thy blessed flock, nor darkly wander more.

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LINES TO THE BLESSED SACRAMENT.

Thou dear and mystic semblance,
Before whose form I kneel,
I tremble as I think upon
The glory thou dost veil,
And ask myself, can he who late
The ways of darkness trod,
Meet face to face, and heart to heart,
His sin-avenging God?

My Judge and my Creator,
If I presume to stand
Amid thy pure and holy ones,
It is thy command,
To lay before thy mercy's seat
My sorrows and my fears,
To wail my life and kiss thy feet
In silence and in tears.

Oh God! that dreadful moment,
In sickness and in strife,
When Death and Hell seemed watching
For the last weak pulse of life,

144

When on the waves of sin and pain
My drowning soul was tost,
Thy hand of mercy saved me then
When hope itself was lost!

I hear thy voice, my Saviour,
It speaks within my breast,
“Oh, come to me thou weary one,
I'll hush thy cares to rest;”
Then from the parched and burning waste
Of sin where long I trod
I come to thee, thou stream of life,
My Saviour and my God!

THO' DARK FATE HATH REFT ME.

Tho' dark Fate hath reft me
Of all that was sweet,
And widely we sever,
Too widely to meet,
O yet while one life pulse
Remains in this heart,
'Twill remember thee, Mary,
Wherever thou art.

145

How sad were the glances
At parting we threw,
No word was there spoken
But the stifled adieu;
My lips o'er thy cold cheek
All raptureless past,
'Twas the first time I prest it,
It must be the last.

But why should I dwell thus
On scenes that but pain,
Or think on thee, Mary,
When thinking is vain;
Thy name to this bosom
Now sounds like a knell;
My fond one,—my dear one,
For ever,—Farewell!