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

“A poet's eye whilst yet a child,
A boyhood wayward, warm, and wild,
A youth that mocked correction's rod,
Caressed would strive to be a god,
And scorned to take the second place,
In class, or honor, field, or race;
A manhood with a soul that flies
More high than heaven's own highest skies,
But with a wing that oft will stoop,
And trail in filthiest dross, and droop;
A heart that knows no other fears
But fear of Him beyond the spheres.
With brow and cheek and look as mild
As ever graced a sinless child,
But still with passions strong and warm
As lava flood or headlong storm;
With rebel tumult in his veins,
And one who rides with spurs, not reins;
With mind, which through the waves of sin
Still hears the helmsman's voice within.
In short, a man who has no life,
Unless he feel the mortal strife
Of songs and harps and Freedom's fights,
And glory's call and Erin's rights—
Who's weak, but looks for strength above,
Who'd die for those he ought to love.”

THE RECLUSE OF INCHIDONY.

Once more I'm free—the city's din is gone,
And with it wasted days and weary nights;
But bitter thoughts will sometimes rush upon
The heart that ever lov'd its sounds or sights.
To you I fly, lone glens and mountain heights,
From all I hate and much I love—no more
Than this I seek, amid your calm delights,
To learn my spirit's weakness to deplore,
To strive against one vice, and gain one virtue more.

How firm are our resolves, how weak our strife!
We seldom man ourselves enough to brave
The syren tones that o'er the sea of life,
Breathe dangerously sweet from pleasure's cave;
False are the lights she kindles o'er the wave,
Man knows her beacon's fatal gleam nor flies,
But as the bird which flight alone could save
Still loves the serpent's fascinating eyes,
Man seeks that dangerous light and in th' enjoyment dies.

But even when pleasure's cup the brightest glow'd
And to her revel loudest was the call,
I felt her palace was not my abode,
I fear'd the handwriting upon the wall,
And said amidst my blindness and my thrall,
Could I, as he of Nazareth did do,
But grasp the pillars of her dazzling hall,
And feel again the strength that once I knew
I'd crumble her proud dome, tho' I should perish too.

Is it existence 'mid the giddy throng
Of those who live but o'er the midnight bowl,
To revel in the dance, the laugh, the song,
And all that chains to earth th' immortal soul,
To breathe the tainted air of days that roll
In one dark round of vice—to hear the cries
Indignant virtue lifts to Glory's goal,
When with unfettered pinion she would rise
To deeds that laugh at death and live beyond the skies?

Not such at least should be the poet's life,
Heaven to his soul a nobler impulse gave,
His be the dwelling where there is no strife,
Save the wild conflict of the wind and wave,
His be the music of the ocean cave
When gentle waves forgetful of their war,
Its rugged breast with whispering fondness lave,
And as he gazes on the evening star,
His heart will heave with joys the world can never mar.

O Nature what art thou that thus can'st pour,
Such tides of holy feeling round the heart?—
In all thy various works at every hour,
How sweet the transport which thy charms impart,
But sweetest to the pensive soul thou art,
In this calm time to man in mercy given,
When the dark mists of Passion leave the heart,
And the free soul, her earthly fetters riven,
Spreads her aspiring wing and seeks her native heaven.

There is a bitterness in man's reproach,
Even when his voice is mildest, and we deem
That on our heaven-born freedom they eneroach,
And with their frailties are not what they seem,
But the soft tones in star, in flower, or stream,
Over the unresisting bosom gently flow,
Like whispers which some spirit in a dream,
Brings from her heaven to him she loved below,
To chide and win his heart, from earth, and sin, and woe.

Who, that e'er wandered in the calm blue night,
To see the moon upon some silent lake,
And as it trembled to her kiss of light,
Heard low soft sounds from its glad waters break,
Who that looked upward to some mountain peak,
That rose disdaining earth—or o'er the sea
Sent eye, sent thought in vain its bounds to seek,
Who thus could gaze, nor wish his soul might be
Like those great works of God, sublime and pure and free?

Do I still see them, love them, live at last
Alone with nature here to walk unseen?
To look upon the storms that I have pass'd
And think of what I might be or have been?
To read my life's dark page?—O beauteous queen
That won my boyish heart, and made me be
Thy inspiration's child—if on this green
And sea-girt hill I feel my spirit free,
Next to yon ocean's God, the praise be all to thee.

Spirit of Song! since first I wooed thy smile,
How many a sorrow hath this bosom known,
How many false ones did its truth beguile,
From thee and nature, while around it strown
Lay shattered hopes and feelings, thou alone
Above my path of darkness brightly rose,
Yielding thy light when other light was gone,
O be thou still the soother of my woes,
'Till the low voice of Death shall call me to repose.

I've seen the friend whose faith I thought was prov'd,
Like one he knew not, pass me heedless by,
I've marked the coldness of the maid I lov'd,
And felt the chill of her once beaming eye.
The bier of fond ones has received my sigh.
Yet am I not abandoned if among
The chosen few whose names can never die,
Thy smile shall light me life's dark waste along,
No friend but this wild lyre,—no heritage but song.

'Tis a delightful calm! there is no sound,
Save the low murmur of the distant rill,
A voice from heaven is breathing all around
Bidding the earth and restless man be still,
Soft sleeps the moon on Inchidony's hill,
And on the shore the shining ripples break,
Gently and whisperingly at Nature's will,
Like some fair child that on its mother's cheek,
Sinks fondly to repose in kisses pure and meek.

'Tis sweet when Earth and Heaven such silence keep,
With pensive step to gain some headland's height,
And look across the wide extended deep,
To where its farthest waters sleep in light,
Or gaze upon those orbs so fair and bright,
Still burning on in Heaven's unbounded space,
Like Seraphs bending o'er life's dreary night,
And with their look of love their smile of peace,
Wooing the weary soul to her high resting place.

Such was the hour the harp of Judah pour'd
Those strains no lyre of earth had ever rung,
When to the God his trembling soul adored
O'er the rapt chords the minstrel monarch hung—
Such was the time when Jeremiah sung
With more than Angel's grief the sceptre torn
From Israel's land, the desolate streets among
Ruin gave back his cry 'till cheerless morn,
‘Return thee to thy God, Jerusalem return.’

Fair moon I too have loved thee, love thee still,
Tho' life to me hath been a chequered scene
Since first with boyhood's bound I climb'd the hill
To see the dark wave catch the silvery sheen,
Or when I sported on my native green
With many an innocent heart beneath thy ray,
Careless of what might come or what had been
When passions slept and virtue's holy ray
Shed its unsullied light round childhood's lovely day.

Yes, I have loved thee, and while others spent
This hour of Heaven above the midnight bowl,
Oft to the lonely beach my steps were bent
That I might gaze on thee without control,
That I might watch the white clouds round thee roll
Their drapery of Heaven thy smiles to veil,
As if too pure for man, 'till o'er my soul
Came that sweet sadness none can e'er reveal,
But passion'd bosoms know for they alone can feel.

O that I were once more what I was then,
With soul unsullied and with heart unsear'd,
Before I mingled with the herd of men
In whom all trace of man had disappear'd;
Before the calm pure morning star that cheer'd
And sweetly lured me on to virtue's shrine
Was clouded—or the cold green turf was rear'd
Above the hearts that warmly beat to mine!
Could I be that once more I need not now repine.

What form is that in yonder anchor'd bark
Pacing the lonely deck, when all beside
Are hush'd in sleep?—tho' undefined and dark
His bearing speaks him one of birth and pride;
Now he leans o'er the vessel's landward side,
This way his eye is turn'd—hush did I hear
A voice as if some lov'd one just had died?
'Tis from yon ship that wail comes on mine ear,
And now o'er ocean's sleep it floats distinct and clear.

SONG.

On Cleada's hill the moon is bright,
Dark Avondu still rolls in light,
All changeless is that mountain's head
That river still seeks ocean's bed,
The calm blue waters of Loch Lene
Still kiss their own sweet isles of green,
But where's the heart as firm and true
As hill, or lake, or Avondu?

It may not be, the firmest heart
From all it loves must often part,
A look, a word will quench the flame
That time or fate could never tame,
And there are feelings proud and high
That thro' all changes cannot die,
That strive with love and conquer too;
I knew them all by Avondu.

How cross and wayward still is fate
I've learn'd at last but learn'd too late,
I never spoke of love, 'twere vain,
I knew it, still I dragg'd my chain,
I had not, never had a hope,
But who 'gainst passion's tide can cope?
Headlong it swept this bosom thro'
And left it waste by Avondu.

O Avondu I wish I were
As once upon that mountain bare,
Where thy young waters laugh and shine
On the wild breast of Meenganine,
I wish I were by Cleada's hill,
Or by Glenluachra's rushy rill,
But no! I never more shall view
Those scenes I loved by Avondu.

Farewell ye soft and purple streaks
Of evening on the beauteous Reeks
Farewell ye mists that lov'd to ride
On Cahir-bearna's stormy side,
Farewell November's moaning breeze,
Wild Minstrel of the dying trees,
Clara! a fond farewell to you
No more we meet by Avondu.

No more—but thou O glorious hill
Lift to the moon thy forehead still,
Flow on, flow on, thou dark swift river
Upon thy free wild course for ever,
Exult young hearts in lifetime's spring
And taste the joys pure love can bring,
But wanderer go—they're not for you!
Farewell, farewell, sweet Avondu.

To-morrow's breeze shall swell the sail
That bears me far from Inisfail,
But, lady, when some happier youth
Shall see thy worth and know thy truth,
Some lover of thy native land
Shall woo thy heart and win thy hand,
Oh, think of him who loved thee too,
And loved in vain my Avondu.

One hour, my bark and I shall be
All friendless on th' unbounded sea,
No voice to cheer me but the wave
And winds that thro' the cordage rave,
No star of hope to light me home,
No track but ocean's trackless foam.—
'Tis sad—no matter, all is gone—
Ho! there, my lads, weigh quick and on!

Stranger, thy lay is sad, I too have felt
That which for worlds I would not feel again,
At beauty's shrine devoutly have I knelt,
And sighed my prayer of love but sigh'd in vain;
Yet 'twas not coldness, falsehood, or disdain
That crush'd my hopes and cast me far away,
Like shatter'd bark upon a stormy main;
'Twas pride, the heritage of sin and clay
Which darkens all that's bright, in young Love's sunny day.

'Tis past—I've conquered, and my bonds are broke,
Tho' in the conflict well-nigh broke my heart,
Man cannot tear him from so sweet a yoke
Without deep wounds that long will bleed and smart,
Lov'd one, but lost one!—yes, to me thou art
As some fair vision of a dream now flown,
A wayward fate hath made us meet and part,
Yet have we parted nobly; be mine own
The grief that e'er we met—that e'er I live alone!

But man was born for suffering, and to bear
Even pain is better than a dull repose,
'Tis noble to subdue the rising tear,
'Tis glorious to outlive the heart's sick throes;
Man is most man amidst the heaviest woes,
And strongest when least human aid is given,
The stout bark flounders when the tempest blows,
The mountain oak is by the lightning riven,
But what can crush the mind that lives alone with heaven?

Deep in the solitude of his own heart
With his own thoughts he'll hold communion high,
Tho' with his fortune's ebb false friends depart
And leave him on life's desert shore to lie
Tho' all forsake him and the world belie—
The world, that fiend of scandal, strife, and crime,
Yet has he that which cannot change or die,
His spirit still thro' fortune, fate, and time,
Lives like an Alpine peak, lone, stainless, and sublime.

Well spoke the Moralist who said “the more
I mixed with men the less a man I grew;”
Who can behold their follies nor deplore
The many days he prodigally threw
Upon their sickening vanities—ye few
In whom I sought for men, nor sought in vain,
Proud without pride—in friendship firm and true,
Oh! that some far off island of the main
Held you and him you love—the wish is but a pain.

My wishes are all such—no joy is mine
Save thus to stray my native wilds among,
On some lone hill an idle verse to twine
Whene'r my spirit feels the gusts of song.
They come but fitfully nor linger long,
And this sad harp ne'er yields a tone of pride,
Its voice ne'er pour'd the battle-tide along
Since freedom sunk beneath the Saxon's stride,
And by the assassin's steel the grey-hair'd Desmond died.

Ye deathless stories and immortal songs,
That live triumphant o'er the waste of time,
To whose inspiring breath alone belongs
To bid man's spirit walk on earth sublime,
Know his own worth, and nerve his heart to climb
The mountain steeps of glory and of fame:
How vainly would my cold and feeble rhyme
Burst the deep slumber, or light up the shame,
Of men who still are slaves amid your voice of flame.

Yet outcast of the nations, lost one yet
How can I look on thee nor try to save,
Or in thy degradation all forget,
That 'twas thy breast that nurs'd me tho' a slave?
Still do I love thee for the life you gave,
Still shall this harp be heard above thy sleep,
Free as the wind and fearless as the wave,
Perhaps in after days thou yet may'st leap,
As strains unheeded now when I lie cold and deep.

Sad one of Desmond, could this feeble hand
But teach thee tones of freedom and of fire,
Such as were heard o'er Hellas' glorious land,
From the high Lesbian harp or Chian lyre,
Thou should'st not wake to sorrow, but aspire
To themes like their's; but yonder see where hurl'd
The crescent prostrate lies—the clouds retire
From freedom's heaven—the cross is wide unfurl'd,
There breaks again that light—the beacon of the World.

Is it a dream that mocks thy cheerless doom?
Or hast thou heard, fair Greece, her voice at last,
And brightly bursting from thy mouldering tomb,
Hast thou thy shroud of ages from thee cast?
High swelling in Cantabria's mountains blast,
And Lusitanian hills that summons rung
Like the Archangel's voice, and as it past,
Quick from their death-sleep many a nation sprung
With hearts by freedom fir'd and hands for freedom strung.

Heavens! 'tis a lovely soul-entrancing sight
To see thy sons careering o'er that wave,
Which erst in Salamis' immortal fight,
Bore their proud gallies 'gainst the Persian slave:
Each billow then that was a tyrant's grave
Now bounds exulting round their gallant way,
Joyous to feel once more the free—the brave
High lifted on their breast—as on that day
When Hellas' shout peal'd high along her conquering bay.

Nursling of freedom, from her mountain nest
She early taught thine eagle wing to soar,
With eye undazzled and with fearless breast
To heights of glory never reached before.
Far on the cliff of time all grand and hoar,
Proud of her charge thy lofty deeds she rears
With her own deathless trophies blazon'd o'er,
As mind-marks for the gaze of after years—
Vainly they journey on—no match for thee appears.

But be not thine, fair land, the dastard strife
Of yon degenerate race—along their plains
They heard that call—they started into life,
They felt their limbs a moment free from chains:
The foe came on:—but shall the minstrel's strains
Be sullied by the story—hush my lyre
Leave them amidst the desolate waste that reigns
Round tyranny's dark march of lava fire—
Leave them amid their shame—their bondage, to expire.

Oh be not thine such strife—there heaves no sod
Along thy fields but hides a hero's head,
And when you charge for freedom and for God,
Then—then be mindful of the mighty dead!
Think that your field of battle is the bed
Where slumber hearts that never fear'd a foe,
And while you feel at each electric tread
Their spirit thro' your veins indignant glow
Strong be your sabres sway for Freedom's vengeful blow.

O, sprung from those who by Eurotas dwelt,
Have we forgot their deeds on yonder plain
When pouring through the pass, the Persian felt
The band of Sparta was not there in vain—
Have ye forgot how o'er the glorious slain
Greece bade her bard the immortal story write—
O if your bosoms one proud thought retain
Of those who perished in that deathless fight,
A wake, like them be free, or sleep with names as bright.

Relics of heroes, from your glorious bed
Amid your broken slumbers do you feel
The rush of war loud thundering o'er your head?
Hear ye the sound of Hellas' charging steel,
Hear ye the victor cry—the Moslem reel?
On Greeks, for freedom on—they fly, they fly;
Heav'ns! how the aged mountains know that peal,
Thro' all their echoing tops while grand and high
Thermopylæ's deep voice gives back the proud reply.

Oh for the pen of him whose bursting tear
Of childhood told his fame in after days,
Oh for that Bard to Greece and freedom dear,
The Bard of Lesbos with his kindling lays,
To hymn, regenerate land, thy lofty praise,
Thy brave unaided strife—to tell the shame
Of Europe's freest sons who 'mid the rays
Thro' time's far vista blazing from thy name,
Caught no ennobling glow from that immortal flame.

Not even the deeds of him who late afar
Shook the astonished nations with his might,
Not even the deeds of her whose wings of war
Wide o'er the ocean stretch their victor flight,—
Not they shall rise with half the unbroken light
Above the waves of time fair Greece as thine;
Earth never yet produced in Heaven's high sight,
Thro' all her climates offerings so divine
As thy proud sons have paid at Freedom's sacred shrine.

Ye isles of beauty from your dwelling blue
Lift up to Heaven that shout unheard too long,
Ye mountains steep'd in glory's distant hue
If with you lives the memory of that song
Which freedom taught you, the proud strain prolong,
Echo each name that in her cause hath died
'Till grateful Greece enrol them with the throng
Of her illustrious sons who on the tide
Of her immortal verse eternally shall glide.

And be not his forgot, the ocean bard
Whose heart and harp in Freedom's cause were strung,
For Greece self-exiled, seeking no reward,
Tyrtæus of his time for Greece he sung:
For her on Moslem spears his breast he flung.
Many bright names in Hellas met renown
But brighter ne'er in song or story rung
Than his, who late for freedom laid him down
And with the Minstrel's wreath entwined her martyr's crown.

That Minstrel sings no more! from yon sad isles
A voice of wail was heard along the deep,
Britannia caught the sound amid her smiles
Forgot her triumph songs and turned to weep.
Vainly her grief is pour'd above his sleep,
He feels it, hears it not! the pealing roar
Of the deep thunder and the tempest's sweep
That call'd his spirit up so oft before,
May shout to him in vain! their Minstrel wakes no more.

That moment heard ye the despairing shriek
Of Missolonghi's daughters? did ye hear
That cry from all the Islands of the Greek,
And the wild yell of Suli's mountaineer?
Th' Illyrian starting dropp'd his forward spear,
The fierce Chimariot lent upon his gun,
From his stern eye of battle dropp'd the tear
For him who died that Freedom might be won
For Greece and all her race. 'Tis gain'd, but he is gone.

Too short he dwelt amongst us and too long,
Where is the bard of earth will now aspire
To soar so high upon the wing of song?
Who shall inherit now his soul of fire?
His spirit's dazzling light?—vain man retire
Mid the wild heath of Albyn's loneliest glen,
Leave to the winds that now forsaken lyre,
Until some angel-bard come down again
And wake once more those strains, too high, too sweet for men.

The sun still sets along Morea's hill,
The moon still rises o'er Cithæron's height;
But where is he, the bard whose matchless skill
Gave fresher beauty to their march of light?
The blue Ægean o'er whose waters bright
Was pour'd so oft the enchantment of his strain
Seeks him; and thro' the wet and starless night
The Peaks-of-thunder flash and shout in vain,
For him who sung their strength—he ne'er shall sing again.

What tho' descended from a lofty line
Earth's highest honours waited his command,
And bright his father's coronet did shine
Around his brow, he scorn'd to take his stand
With those whose names must die—a nobler band,
A deathless fame his ardent bosom fired,
From Glory's mount he saw the promised land
To which his anxious spirit long aspired,
And then in Freedom's arms exulting he expired.

You who delight to censure feeble man,
Wrapt in self-love to your own failings blind,
Presume not with your narrow view to scan
The aberrations of a mighty mind;
His course was not the path of human-kind,
His destinies below were not the same,
With passions headlong as the tempest-wind
His spirit wasted in its own strong flame,
A wandering star of Heaven, he's gone from whence he came.

But while the sun looks down upon those Isles
That laugh in beauty o'er the Ægean deep,
Long as the moon shall shed her placid smiles
Upon the fields where Freedom's children sleep—
Long as the bolt of Heaven—the tempest's sweep
With Rhodope or Athos war shall wage,
And its triumphant sway the cross shall keep
Above the crescent, even from age to age
Shall Byron's name shine bright on Hellas' deathlesspage.

Bard of my boyhood's love, farewell to thee;
I little deem'd that e'er my feeble lay
Should wait thy doom—those eyes so soon should see
The clouding of thy spirit's glorious ray;
Fountain of beauty, on life's desert way,
Too soon thy voice is hush'd—thy waters dried:
Eagle of song too short thy pinion's sway
Career'd in its high element of pride,
Weep! blue-eyed Albyn, weep! with him thy glory died!

O! could my lyre, this inexperienced hand
Like that high master-bard thy spirit sway,
Not such weak tributes should its touch command,
Immortal as the theme should be thy lay;
But meeter honours loftier harps shall pay,
The harps of freeborn men—enough for me
If as I journey on life's weary way
Mourner I rest awhile to weep with thee,
O'er him who lov'd our land, whose voice would make her free.

My country, must I still behold thy tears
And watch the sorrows of thy long dark night?
No sound of joy thy desolation cheers,
Thine eyes have look'd in vain for freedom's light;
Then set thy sun and withered all thy might,
When first you stooped beneath the Saxon yoke,
And thy high harp that called to freedom's fight.
Since then forgot the strains that once it woke,
And like the Banshee's cry of death alone hath spoke.

Is this the Atlantic that before me rolls
In its eternal freedom round thy shore?
Hath its grand march no moral yet for souls?
Is there no sound of glory in its roar?
Must man alone be abject evermore?
Slave! hast thou ever gaz'd upon that sea?
When the strong wind its wrathful billows bore
'Gainst earth, did not their mission seem to be,
To lash thee into life, and teach thee to be free?

But no! thine heart is broke, thine arm is weak
Who thus could see God's image not to sigh,
Famine hath plough'd his journeys on thy cheek,
Despair hath made her dwelling in thine eye,
The lordly Churchman rides unheeding by,
He fattens on the sweat that dries thy brain,
The very dogs that in his kennel lie
Hold revels to thy fare! but don't complain
He has the cure of souls—the law doth so ordain.

But you're not all abandoned; there are some
Whose tender bowels groan to see your case.
Rejoice, rejoice, the men of bibles come,
There's pity beaming in their meek mild face
Come, starve no longer now, poor famished race,
A bellyfull from heaven shall now be thine,
Open your mouths and chew the words of grace—
There—is not that rent, clothes, and meat and wine?
Thanks to the Lord's beloved—I wonder do they dine.

Oh ye who loved them faithfully and long,
Even when the fagot blazed the sword did rave,
In sorrow's night who bid their hearts be strong,
And died defending the high truths ye gave—
Ye dwellers of the mountain and the cave,
If lay of mine survive the waste of time,
Your praises shall be hymned on land and wave
Till Christ's young soldiers in each distant clime
Shall guard the cross like you, and tread your march sublime.

Ye watchers on the eternal city's walls,
Ye warders of Jerusalem's high towers,
When have your nights been spent in luxury's halls
Or your youth's strength consumed in pleasure's bowers?
Earth's gardens have for you no fruits, no flowers—
Your path is one of thorns—the world may frown
And hate you, but whene'er its war-cloud lowers,
Stand to your arms again, nor lay them down
Till the high chief you serve shall call you to your crown.

Could England's sons but see what I have seen,
Your wretched fare when home at night you go,
Your cot of mud where never sound has been
But groans of famine, of disease, and woe,
Your naked children shivering in the snow,
The wet cold straw on which your limbs recline,
Saw they but these their wealth they would forego,
To know you still retain'd one spark divine,
To hear your mountain shout and see your charging line.

England! thou freest, noblest of the world,
O may the minstrel never live to see
Against thy sons the flag of green unfurl'd,
Or his own land thus aim at liberty;
May their sole rivalry for ever be
Such as the Gallic despot dearly knew,
When English hearts and Irish chivalry
Strove who should first be where the eagle flew,
And high their conquering shout arose o'er Waterloo.

But prison'd winds will round their caverns sweep
Until they burst them, then the hills will quake.
The lava-rivers will for ages sleep,
But nations tremble when in wrath they wake.
Erin has hearts by mountain, glen, and lake,
That wrongs or favors never can forget,
If lov'd they'll die for you, but trampled, break
At last their long dark silence—you have met
Their steel in foreign fields, they've hands can wield it yet.

Too long on such dark themes my song hath run;
Eugenio 'tis meet it now should end,
It was no lay of gladness, but 'tis done,
I bid farewell to it and thee my friend:
I do not hope that the cold world will lend
To sad and selfish rhymes a patient ear,
Enough for me if while I darkly bend
O'er my own troubled thoughts, one heart is near
That feels my joy or grief, with sympathy sincere.

I have not suffer'd more than worthier men,
Nor of my share of ill do I complain,
But other hearts will find some refuge when
Above them lower the gathering clouds of pain,
The world has vanities and man is vain,
The world has pleasures and to these they fly,
I too have tried them but they left a stain
Upon my heart, and as their tide roll'd by,
The cares I sought to drown, emerged with sterner eye.

Thou hast not often seen my clouded brow;
The tear I strove with, thou hast never seen,
The load of life that did my spirit bow
Was hid beneath a calm or mirthful mien;
The wild flowers' blossom and the dew-drops' sheen
Will fling their light and beauty o'er the spot,
Where in its cold dark chamber all unseen
The water trickles through the lonely grot,
And weeps itself to stone—such long hath been my lot.

It matters not what was, or is the cause,
I wish not even thy faithful breast to know
The grief which magnet-like my spirit draws
True to itself above life's waves of woe,
The gleams of happiness I feel below,
A while may play around me and depart
Like sunlight on the eternal hills of snow,
It gilds their brow but never warms their heart,
Such cold and cheerless beam doth joy to me impart.

The night is spent, our task is ended now,
See yonder steals the green and yellow light,
The lady of the morning lifts her brow
Gleaming thro' dews of Heaven, all pure and bright,
The calm waves heave with tremulous delight,
The far Seven-Heads thro' mists of purple smile,
The lark ascends from Inchidony's height,
'Tis morning—sweet one of my native Isle,
Wild voice of Desmond hush—go rest thee for awhile.

ACCESSION OF GEORGE THE FOURTH.

On Albion's cliffs the sun is bright,
And still Saint George's sea:
O'er her blue hills emerging height
Hover soft clouds of silvery light,
As in expectancy;
The barks that seek the sister shore
Fly gallantly the breeze before,
Like messengers of joy,
And light is every bosom's bound,
And the bright eyes that glance around,
Sparkle with transport high,
Hark! the cannon's thundering voice
Bids every British heart rejoice,
Upon this glorious day.
Slowly the lengthened files advance
Mid trumpet swell and war-horse prance,
While sabre's sheen and glittering lance
Blaze in the noontide ray,

Streamer and flag from each mast-head
On the glad breeze their foldings fling,
The bells their merry peals ring out,
And kerchiefs wave and banners flout
And joyous thousands loudly shout,
Huzza for George our King!

'Tis night—calm night, and all around
The listening ear can catch no sound,
The shouts that with departing day
Less frequent burst—have died away,
The moon slow mounts the cloudless sky
With modest brow and pensive eye,
Thames owns her presence with delight
And trembles to her kiss of night,
Far down along his course serene,
The liquid flash of oars is seen
Advancing on with measured sweep,
Lovely to view is the time they keep,
And hark! the voice of melody
Comes o'er the waters joyously,
It is from that returning boat
Those sweet sounds of triumph float,
And nearer as she glides along
Mingling with music swells the song.

SONG.

Britannia exult on thy throne of blue waters,
In the midst of thine Islands thou queen of the sea,
And loud be the hymn of thy fair bosom'd daughters
To hail the high chief of the brave and the free.
While o'er the subject deep
Proudly your navies sweep,
Tars of old England still shout o'er the main,
'Till the green depths of ocean ring,
God save great George our King,
Honor and glory and length to his reign.

Hush'd be your war song ye sons of the mountain,
Pibroch of Donald Dhu mute be thy voice,
Wizard that slept by Saint Fillan's grey fountain,
With loyalty's rapture bid Scotia rejoice,
Then to your stayless spear
Albyn's brave mountaineer,
Should foemen awake your wild slogan again,
And loud o'er the battle sing
God save great George our king,
Honor and glory and length to his reign.

Strike thy wild harp yon green Isle of the ocean,
And light as thy mirth be the sound of its strain,
And welcome with Erin's own burst of emotion,
The Prince that shall loose the last links of thy chain,

And like the joyous cry
Hellas' sons raised on high,
When they stood like their fathers all free on the plain,
Up the glad chorus fling
God save great George our King,
Honor and glory and length to his reign.

Chief of the mighty and the free
Thy joyous Britain welcomes thee,
Her longing eyes have watch'd afar
The mounting of thy promised star,
Beneath its influence benign
Long may she kneel at Freedom's shrine.
Its rising o'er St. George's main
Ierne hails with glad acclaim,
Dear as to Hellas' weary few
Their own blue wave roll'd full in view,
Such Erin's song of Jubilee
And such her hopes, O Prince, from thee;—

From thee, for thy young steps have stray'd
In converse with the Athenian maid,
Listen'd to Virtue's high reward
As taught by sage or sung by bard,
Smil'd at Anacreon's sportive lyre
Or glow'd at Pindar's strain of fire,
Or heard the flood of Freedom roll'd
From lips that now alas! are cold,

For ever cold in that dark tomb
Where Britain mourns her Fox's doom;—
Nurtur'd with these, by these refin'd,
She watch'd with joy thy opening mind,
Young as thou wert she then could see
That Erin's wail was dear to thee,
And look'd with transport to the day
Would yield the sceptre to thy sway.

'Tis done—on yonder deathless field
Ambition closed her bloody game,
Bent darkly o'er her shatter'd shield
And dropp'd her tear of flame,
Europe beheld with glistening eye
Her wrongs aveng'd—her fetters riven,
And peace and mercy from on high,
Diffus'd once more the gifts of Heaven,
With Britain's genius hand in hand,
Long may they wait on thy command,
Long to our vows may they remain
To bless, O Prince, thy prosperous reign,
And waft Britannia's halcyon day
To every land that owns thy sway.

Yes, even to those stranger-lands
Where Niger rolls thro' burning sands;
Where fragrant spirits ever sigh
On the fresh breeze of Yemen's sky,

Or where indulgent nature smiles
On her Pelew or Friendly Isles,
Commerce and Peace shall waft thy fame
And teach the world their George's name.

In yon fair land of sunny skies
Where Brahma hears her children's sighs,
And Avarice with her demon crew
Drains to the life the meek Gentoo,
Justice no more shall plead in vain
But point to thine avenging reign.

Ganges now no more shall hear,
As on he rolls his sacred water,
The clash of arms—the shout of fear
Redden no more with kindred slaughter;
The Hindoo maid shall fearless stray
At eve his peaceful banks along,
And dance to Scotia's sprightly lay
Or weep at Erin's plaintive song,
Or sit amid Acacia bowers
That hang their cooly shade above her,
And as she twines the fairest flowers
To deck the brows of her young lover,
She'll think from whence these pleasures came,
Look to the west and bless thy name.

Far o'er the wave where Erin draws
The sword in Heaven's best, holiest cause,

And sees her green flag proudly sail
Aloft on Chili's mountain gale,
When swells her harp with freedom's sound
And freedom's bowl goes circling round,
Then shall the cup be crown'd to thee
Sparkling with smiles of liberty.

The glorious task, O Prince, be thine
To guard thy Britain's sacred shrine,
To watch o'er Freedom's vestal fire,
Call forth the spirit of the lyre,
Bid worth and genius honor'd be,
Unbind the slave—defend the free,
And bring again o'er ocean's foam
The wandering Pargiot to his home.
Children of Parga are ye gone—
Children of Freedom shall her song
Echo no more your cliffs among?
Shall barbarous Moslem rites profane
The shrines that bow'd to Issa's name,
To guard your shores from despot's tread
Was it in vain your fathers bled,
'Till every rock and every wave
Around them, was a Pargiot's grave?
Oh! that their sons should ever roam
O'er ocean's waste to seek a home,
Oh! that the dwelling of the free—
Parga! that thou should'st sullied be,
By tread of Moslem tyranny

Oh Greece, thou ever honor'd name,
Even in thy bondage and thy shame
Fondly around each youthful mind,
By all thy classic ties entwined,
How shall this lay address the free
Nor turn aside sweet land to thee,
Mother of arts and Liberty.
From thy bright pages first I drew
That soul that makes me part of you,
There caught that spark of heavenly fire,
If such e'er warms the minstrel's lyre,
If e'er it breathes one waking tone
O'er freedom's slumbers—'tis thine own.

Oh! after bondage dark and long
Could I but hear young freedom's song,
And scatter'd see the Moslem's pride
Before thy battle's whelming tide,
On that red field I'd gladly lie,
My requiem—thy conquering cry.
Heavens! mid the sons of godlike sires,
Is there no soul whom freedom fires,
And is the lyre of Lesbos hung
In slavery's hall, unswept, unstrung,
Is every glorious relic lost
Of that immortal patriot's ashes,
That on the winds of freedom tost,
Where Salamis' blue billow dashes,

Floated all burning from their pile,
And slept on continent and isle,
As if to fire with that embrace
His native land and all her race?
It cannot be—there yet remain
Some sparks of that high spirit's flame;
Oh wake them with thy kindling breath
Oh call a nation back from death.
Yes captives! yes, at his command
Methinks I see Britannia stand,
Where stood and died the Spartan band,
Where rising o'er Thermopylæ
Thessalia's mountains view the sea,
Sparkling with all its sunny isles—
Oh how can slavery wear such smiles?—
And Marathon's, Platæa's plain,
And Thebes whose heroes died in vain,
To each immortal scene about
The Queen of ocean sends her shout,
While hill and plain and isle around
Answer to freedom's long lost sound.

Sons of the mighty and the wise,
Sons of the Greeks, awake!—arise!
By all your wrongs—by all your shame,
By freedom's self, that blessed name,
Think of the fields your fathers fought,
Think of the rights they dying bought—
Hark! hark! they call you from their skies

Sons of the mighty, wake—arise!
And oh, my country, shall there be
From these wild chords no prayer for thee?
Land of the minstrel's holiest dream,
Land of young beauty's brightest beam,
The fearless heart—the open hand—
My own—my dear—my native land!

And can the noble and the wise,
A nation's rightful prayer despise,
Can they who boast of being free,
Refuse that blessed boast to thee?
See yonder aged warrior brave,
Whose blood has been on sward and wave,
Is he refused his valour's meed
Because he loves his father's creed?
Or is there in that creed alone,
What Valour, Genius, should disown;
To its fond votary is there given
Less of the mounting flame of Heaven?
When his young hand essays the lyre,
Oh! can he wake no tone of fire?
Does war's stern aspect blanch his cheek
Does foeman find his arm more weak,
His eye less bright? Oh let them say
Who saw the sabre's fearful sway,
Cleave its red path thro' many a fray,
Who saw his minstrel banner waving
Where war's wild din was wildest raving,

And heard afar the onset cry
Of hearts that know to win, or die.

Oh, Britain, had we never known
The kindling breath of Freedom zone,
Or vanquished, had we still remained
In slavery's deepest dungeon chained,
Without one ray of freedom's sun
To wake our sighs for glories gone,
Such cheerless thraldom we might bear
With the dark meekness of despair;
But the chained Eagle when he sees
His mates upon the mountain breeze,
And marks their free wing upward soar
To heights his own oft reach'd before,
Again that kindred clime he seeks,
Bold bird 'tis vain—thy wild heart breaks!

Oh, monarch! by a monarch's name,
By the high line from which you came,
By that, to each proud spirit dear,
The lofty name that dies not here,
With life's short day—but round the tomb
Breathes Immortality's perfume,
By Royalty's protecting hand,
Look on my dear—my native land

RESTORATION OF THE SPOILS OF ATHENS.

Raise, Athens, raise thy loftiest tone,
Eastward the tempest cloud hath blown,
Vengeance hung darkly on its wing,
It burst in ruin;—Athens, ring
Thy loudest peal of triumphing;
Persia is fallen: in smouldering heaps,
Her grand, her stately City sleeps;
Above her towers exulting high
Susa has heard the victor's cry,
And Ecbatana, nurse of pride,
Tells where her best, her bravest died.
Persia is sad,—her virgin's sighs
Thro' all her thousand states arise.
Along Arbela's purple plain
Shrieks the wild wail above the slain;
Long, long shall Persia curse the day,
When at the voice of despot sway,
Her millions marched o'er Helle's wave,
To chain—vain boast—the free, the brave.

Raise, Athens, raise thy triumph song!
Yet louder yet, the peal prolong!
Aveng'd at length our slaughter'd sires;
Aveng'd the waste of Persian fires,
And these dear relics of the brave,
Torn from their shrines by Satrap slave,
The spoils of Persia's haughty King
Again are thine—ring, Athens, ring!

Oh! Liberty, delightful name,
The land that once hath felt thy flame,
That lov'd thy light, but wept its clouding,
Oh! who can tell her joy's dark shrouding?
But if to cheer that night of sorrow
Mem'ry a ray of thine should borrow,
That on her tears and on her woes,
Sheds one soft beam of sweet repose,
Oh! who can tell her bright revealing,
Her deep—her holy thrills of feeling.

So Athens felt, as fix'd her gaze,
On her proud wealth of better days;
'Twas not the Tripod's costly frame,
Nor vase that told its artist's fame,
Nor veils high wrought with skill divine,
That graced the old Minerva's shrine,
Nor marble bust where vigour breath'd,
And beauty's living ringlets wreath'd.
Not these could wake that joyous tone,
Those transports long unfelt—unknown—

'Twas memory's vision robed in light,
That rush'd upon her raptured sight,
Warm from the fields where freedom strove,
Fresh with the wreaths that freedom wove,
This bless'd her then, if that could be—
If aught is blest that is not free.

But did no voice exulting raise
To that high Chief the song of praise,
And did no peal of triumph ring,
For Macedon's victorious King,
Who from the foe those spoils had won;
Was there no shout for Philip's son?
No—Monarch—no—what is thy name,
What is thine high career of fame,
From its first field of youthful pride
Where Valour failed and Freedom died,
Onward by mad ambition fired
'Till Greece beneath its march expired?
Let the base herd to whom thy gold
Is dearer than the rights they sold,
In secret, to their Lord and King
That foul unholy incense fling;
But let no slave exalt his voice
Where hearts in glory's trance rejoice:
Oh breathe not now her tyrant's name
Oh wake not yet Athenæ's shame!
Would that the hour when Xerxes' ire
Wrapt fair Athenæ's walls in fire,

All, all had perished in the blaze
And that had been her last of days!
Gone down in that bright shroud of glory
The loveliest wreck in after story;
Or when her children forced to roam,
Freedom their stars—the waves their home,
Near Salamis' immortal isle
Would they had slept in victory's smile;
Or Cheronea's fatal day
While fronting Slavery's dark array,
Had seen them bravely, nobly die,
Bosom on gushing bosom lie,
Piling fair freedom's breast-work high,
Ere one Athenian should remain
To languish life in captive chain,
Or basely wield a freeman's sword
Beneath a Macedonian lord!
Such, then, was Greece, tho' conquer'd, chain'd,
Some pride, some virtue, yet remained;
And as the sun when down he glides
Slowly behind the mountains' sides,
Leaves in the cloud that robes the hill,
His own bright image burning still,
Thus freedom's lingering flushes shone
O'er Greece,—tho' freedom's self was gone.

Such, then, was Greece! how fallen, how low,
Yet great even then, what is she now?

Who can her many woes deplore,
Who shall her freedom's spoils restore,
Darkly above her slavery's night
The crescent sheds its lurid light;
Upon her breaks no cheering ray,
No beam of freedom's lovely day;
But there—deep shrouded in her doom,
There now is Greece—a living tomb.
Look at her sons and seek in vain,
The indignant brow, the high disdain,
With which the proud soul drags her chain:
The living spark of latent fire
That smoulders on, but can't expire,
That bright beneath the lowering lashes
Will burst at times in angry flashes,
Like Etna, fitful slumbers taking,
To be but mightier in its waking.
Spirits of those whose ashes sleep
For freedom's cause in glory's bed!
Oh do you sometimes come and weep
That, that is lost for which ye bled,
That e'er barbarian flag should float
O'er your own home, in victory's pride,
That e'er should ring barbarian shout
Where Wisdom taught and Valour died.
Oh for that Minstrel's soul of fire
That breath'd, and Sparta's arm was strong!
Oh for some master of the lyre
To wake again that kindling song!

And if sweet land aught lives of thee,
What Hellas was she yet may be,
Freedom, like her to Orpheus given,
May visit yet her home—her heaven.

THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM.

'Tis midnight, and November's gale
Sweeps hoarsely down Glengarav's vale,
Thro' the thick rain its fitful tone
Shrieks like a troubled Spirit's moan,
The Moon that from her cloud at eve
Looked down on Ocean's gentle heave,
And bright on lake and mountain shone,
Now wet and darkling, journeys on;
From the veiled Heaven there breaks no ray
To guide the traveller on his way,
Save when the lightning gilds awhile,
The craggy peak of Sliav-na-goil,
Or its far-streaming flashes fall
Upon Glengarav's mountain wall,
And kindles with its angry streak
The rocky zone it may not break—
At times is heard the distant roar
Of billows warring 'gainst the shore,
And rushing from their native hills
The voices of a thousand rills,

Come shouting down the mountain's side.
When the deep thunder's peal hath died.
How fair at sunset to the view
On its lov'd rock th' Arbutus grew,
How motionless the heather lay
In the deep gorge of that wild bay,
Thro' the tall forest not a breeze
Disturbed the silence of the trees,
O'er the calm scene their foliage red
A venerable glory shed,
And sad and sombre beauty gave
To the wild hill and peaceful wave.

To-morrow's early dawn will find
That beauty scatter'd on the wind;
To-morrow's sun will journey on
And see the forest's glory gone,
Th' Arbutus shiver'd on the rock
Beneath the tempest's angry shock,
The monarch Oak all scathed and riven
By the red arrowy bolt of heaven,
While not a leaf remains behind
Save some lone mourner of its kind,
Wither'd and drooping on its bough
Like him who treads that valley now.

Alone he treads—still on the blast
The sheeted rain is driving fast,
And louder peals the thunder's crash,
Louder the ocean's distant dash—

Amid the elemental strife
He walks as reckless, as if life
Were but a debt he'd freely pay
To the next flash that crossed his way;
Yet is there something in his air
Of purpose firm that mocks despair,
What that, and whither he would go
Thro' storm and darkness none may know,
But his unerring steps can tell,
There's not a deer in that wild dell,
Can track its mazy depths so well.

He gains the shore—his whistle shrill
Is answer'd—ready at his will;
In a small cove his pinnace lay,
“Weigh quick my lads, I cross the bay.”
No question ask they, but a cheer
Proclaims their bosoms know not fear.
Sons of the mountain and the wave,
They shrink not from a billowy grave.
Those hearts have oft braved death before,
'Mid Erin's rocks and Biscay's roar;
Each lightly holds the life he draws,
If it but serve his Chieftain's cause;
And thinks his toil full well he pays,
If he bestow one word of praise.

At length they've cleared the narrow bay,
Up with the sails, away! away!

O'er the broad surge she flies as fleet
As on the tempest's wing the sleet,
And fearless as the sea-bird's motion
Across his own wild fields of ocean.
Tho' winds may wave and seas o'erwhelm,
There is a hand upon that helm,
That can control its trembling pow'r,
And quits it not in peril's hour;
Full frequently from sea to sky
That Chieftain looks with anxious eye,
But nought can he distinguish there
More desperate than his heart's despair.

On yonder shore what means that light
That flings its murky flame thro' night?
Along the margin of the ocean
It moves with slow and measured motion;
Another follows, and behind
Are torches flickering in the wind.
Hark! heard you on the dying gale
From yonder cliffs the voice of wail?
'Twas but the tempest's moaning sigh,
Or the wild sea-bird's lonely cry.
Hush! there again, I know it well,
It is the sad Ululla's swell,
That mingles with the death-bell's toll
Its grief for some departed soul.

Inver-na-marc thy rugged shore
Is altered since the days of yore,

Where once ascending from the town
A narrow path looked fearful down,
O'er the bleak cliffs which wildly gave
Their rocky bosom to the wave.
A beauteous and unrivalled sweep
Of beach, extends along the deep;
Above is seen a sloping plain,
With princely house and fair domain,
Where erst the deer from covert dark
Gazed wildly on the anchor'd bark,
Or listened the deep copse among
To hear the Spanish seaman's song,
Come sweetly floating up the bay,
With the last purple gleam of day.—
All changed, even yon projecting steep
That darkly bends above the deep,
And mantles with its joyless shade
The waste that man and time have made;
There mid its tall and circling wood,
In olden times an abbey stood;
It stands no more—no more at even
The vesper hymn ascends to Heaven;
No more the sound of Matin bell
Calls forth each father from his cell,
Or breaks upon the sleeping ear
Of Leim-a-tagart's mountaineer,
And bids him on his purpose pause,
Ere yet the foraying brand he draws.

Where are they now—go climb that height,
Whose depth of shade yields scanty light,
Where the dark alders droop their head
O'er Ard-na-mrahar's countless dead,
And nettle tall and hemlock waves
In rank luxuriance o'er the graves;
There fragments of the sculptur'ed stone,
Still sadly speak of grandeur gone,
And point the spot, where dark and deep
The fathers and their abbey sleep.
That train hath reach'd the abbey ground,
The flickering lights are ranged around,
And resting on the bier,
Amid the attendants' broken sighs,
And pall'd with black the coffin lies;
The Monks are kneeling near.
The abbot stands above the dead,
With grey and venerable head,
And sallow cheek and pale.
The Miserere hymn ascends,
And its deep solemn sadness blends
With the hoarse and moaning gale.
The last “Amen” was breath'd by all,
And now they had removed the pall,
And up the coffin reared;
When a stern “hold” was heard aloud,
And wildly bursting thro' the crowd,
A frantic form appeared.

He paused awhile and gasped for breath:
His look had less of life than death,
He seemed as from the grave;
So all unearthly was his tread
And high above his stately head,
A sable plume did wave.
Clansmen and fathers looked aghast,
But when the first surprise was past,
Yet louder rose their grief;
For when he stood above the dead,
And took the bonnet from his head,
All knew Ivera's Chief;
No length of time could e'er erase,
Once seen, that Chieftain's form and face;
Calmly he stood amid their gaze,
While the red torches shifting blaze,
As strong it flicker'd in the breeze
That wildly raved among the trees,
Its fitful light upon him threw,
And Donal Comm stood full to view.

His form was tall, but not the height
Which seems unwieldy to the sight;
His mantle, as it backward flowed,
An ample breadth of bosom shewed;
His sabre's girdle round his waist
A golden buckle tightly braced;
A close set trews displayed a frame
You could not all distinctly name

If it had more of strength or grace;
But when the light fell on his face,
The dullest eye beheld a man
Fit to be Chieftain of his clan.

His cheek tho' pale retained the hue
Which from Iberian blood it drew;
His sharp and well-form'd features bore
Strong semblance to his sires of yore;
Calm, grave, and dignified, his eye
Had an expression proud and high,
And in its darkness dwelt a flame
Which not even grief like his could tame;
Above his bent brow's sad repose,
A high heroic forehead rose;
But o'er its calm you marked the cloud
That wrapp'd his spirit in its shroud;
His clustering locks of sable hue,
Upon the tempest wildly flew.
Unrecked by him the storm may blow,
His feelings are with her below.

“Remove the lid” at length he cried.
None stirred, they thought it strange; beside,
Her kinsman mutter'd something—“Haste,
I have not breath or time to waste
In parley now—Ivera's chief
May be permitted one, last, brief
Farewell with her he loved, and then,
Eva is yours and earth's again.”

At length, reluctant they obey'd:
Slowly he turned aside his head,
And press'd his hand against his brow,
'Tis done at last, he knows not how:
But when he heard one piercing shriek,
A deadlier paleness spread his cheek;
Sidelong he looked, and fearfully,
Dreading the sight he yet would see;
Trembled his knees, his eye grew dim,
His stricken brain began to swim;
He staggered back against a Yew
That o'er the bier its branches threw;
Upon his brows the dews of death
Collected, and his quick low breath
Seem'd but the last and feeble strife,
Ere yet it yield, of parting life.
There lay his bride—death hath not quite
O'ershadowed all her beauty's light;
Still on her brow and on her cheek,
It linger'd, like the sun's last streak
On Sliav-na-goila's head of snow
When all the vales are dark below—
Her lids in languid stillness lay
Like lilies o'er a stream-parched way,
Which kiss no more the wave of light
That flashed beneath them purely bright;
Above her forehead fair and young,
Her dark-brown tresses clustering hung,

Like summer clouds, that still shine on
When he who gilds their folds is gone.
Her features breath'd a sad sweet tone
Caught ere the spirit left her throne,
Like that the night-wind often makes
When some forsaken lyre it wakes,
And minds us of the master hand,
That once could all its voice command.

“Cold be the hand, and curst the blow”
Her kinsman cried, “that laid thee low;—
Curst be the steel that pierced thy heart.”
Forth sprung that Chief with sudden start,
Tore off the scarf that veiled her breast,
That dark deep wound can tell the rest.—
He gazed a moment, then his brand
Flashed out so sudden in his hand,
His boldest clansman backward reeled,
Trembling the aged abbot kneeled.
“Is this a time for grief,” he cried
“And thou thus low, my murder'd bride,
Fool! to such boyish feelings bow,
Far other task hath Donal now;
Hear me ye thunder upon high!
And thou blest ocean hear my cry!
Hear me! sole resting friend, my sword,
And thou dark wound, attest my word!
No food, no rest shall Donal know,
Until he lay thy murderer low—

Until each sever'd quivering limb
In its own lustful blood shall swim;
When my heart gains this poor relief,
Then Eva wilt thou bless thy chief—
Bless him!—no, no, that word is o'er,
My sweet one! thou can'st bless no more;
No more returning from the strife
Where Donal fought to guard thy life
And free his native land, shalt thou
Wipe the red war-drops from his brow,
And hush his toils and cares to rest
Upon thy fond and faithful breast.”
He gazed a moment on her face
And stooped to take the last embrace,
And as his lips to her's he prest,
The coffin shook beneath his breast
That heaved convulsive as t'would break;
Then in a tone subdued and meek,
“Take her,” he said, and calmly rose,
And thro' the friends that round him close,
Unheeding what their love would say,
All silently he urged his way,
Then wildly rushing down the steep
He plunged amid the breaker's sweep.

Awfully the thunder
Is shouting thro' the night,
And o'er the heaven convulsed and riven
The lightning-streams are bright,

Beneath their fitful flashing,
As from hill to hill they leap,
In ridgy brightness dashing
Comes on loud ocean's sweep.

Fearfully the tempest
Sings out his battle-song,
His war is with the unflinching rocks
And the forests tall and strong;
His war is with the stately bark;
But ere the strife be o'er,
Full many a pine, on land and brine,
Shall rise to Heaven no more.

The storm shall sink in slumber,
The lightning fold its wing,
And the morning star shall gleam afar,
In the beauty of its king;
But there are eyes shall sleep in death
Before they meet its ray,
Avenger! on thine errand speed,
Haste Donal on thy way.
Carriganassing from thy walls
No longer now the warder calls;
No more is heard o'er goblets bright
Thy shout of revelry at night;
No more the bugle's merry sound
Wakes all thy mountain echoes round,

When for the foray, or the chase,
At morn rush'd forth thy hardy race,
And northward as it died away
Roused the wild deer of Kaoim-an-é.
All bare is now thy mountain's side,
Where rose the forest's stately pride;
No solitary friend remains
Of all that graced thy fair domains;
But that dark stream still rushes on
Beneath thy walls, the swift Ouvan,
And kisses with its sorrowing wave,
The ruins which it could not save;
Fair Castle, I have stood at night,
When summer's moon gave all her light,
And gaz'd upon thee till the past,
Came o'er my spirit sad and fast;
To think thy strength could not avail
Against the Saxon's iron hail,
And thou at length didst cease to be
The shield of mountain liberty.

From Carriganassig shone that night
Thro' storm and darkness many a light,
And loud and noisy was the din
Of some high revelry within:
At times was heard the warder's song
Upon the night-wind borne along,
And frequent burst upon the ear
The merry soldier's jovial cheer:

For their dark Chieftain in his hall
That day held joyous festival,
And showed forth all his wealth and pride
To welcome home his beauteous bride.

Hush'd was the music's sprightly sound,
The wine had ceased to circle round,
And to their chambers, one by one,
The drowsy revellers had gone;
Alone that Chieftain still remains,
And still by starts the goblet drains:
He paced the hall with hurried tread,
Oft look'd behind and shook his head,
And paused and listened as the gale
Swell'd on his ear with wilder wail,
And where the tapers faintly flung
Their light, and where the arras hung,
He'd start and look with fearful glance
And quivering lip, then quick advance,
And laugh in mockery of his fear
And drink again.
“Fitz-Eustace! here,
“Close well that door and sit awhile,
“Some foolish thoughts I would beguile,
“Fill to my bride and say did'st e'er
“See form so light, or face so fair?
“I little deem'd this savage land
“Such witching beauty could command;

“That rebel Erin's mountains wild
“Could nurse M`Carthy's matchless child;
“Then drink with me in brimming flow
“The heiress of Clan-Donal-Roe.”
Fitz-Eustace quaff'd the cup and said,
“I saw one more—she's with the dead,
“You best know how”—
That Chieftan frown'd
And dash'd the goblet to the ground;
“Curse on thy tongue, that deed is past,
“But one word more and 'tis thy last;
“Art thou t' upbraid me also doomed;”
He paused awhile and then resum'd—

“Eustace, forgive me what I say,
In sooth, I'm not myself to-day,
Some demon haunts me, since my pride
Urged me to stab that outlaw's bride,
Each form I see, each sound I hear,
Her dying threat assails my ear,
Which warn'd me I should shortly feel
The point of Donal's vengeful steel;
I know that devil's desperate ire
Would seek revenge thro' walls of fire,
Even now upon the bridal night,
When bridegroom's heart beats ever light
No joy within my bosom beams:
Beside, yon silly maiden deems,

That 'twas thro' love I sought her hand.
No—Eustace 'twas her father's land:
He hath retainers many a one
Who with this wench to us are won.
You know our cause, we still must aid
As well by policy as blade;
I loath each one of Irish birth,
As the vile worm that crawls the earth;
But come, say canst thou aught impart
Could give some comfort to my heart;
Fell Donal Comm into our snare,
Or does the wolf still keep his lair?”

“Neither;—the wolf now roams at large,
“'Twas but last evening that a barge
“Well mann'd, was seen at the close of day
“To make Glengarav's lonely bay,
“'Tis said;—but one who more can tell
“Now lodges in the eastern cell;
“A monk who loudly doth complain
“Of plunder driven and brethren slain
“By Donal Comm, and from the strife
“This night fled here with scarcely life.”

“Now dost thou lend my heart some cheer,
“Good Eustace thou await me here;
“I'll see him straight, and if he show
“Where I may find my deadly foe,

“That haunts my ways—the rebel's head
“Shall grace my walls,—”
With cautious tread
He reached the cell and gently drew
The bolts,—that monk then met his view.
Within that dungeon's farthest nook
He lay;—one hand contained a book,
The other propp'd his weary head:
Some scanty straw supplied his bed:
His order's habit coarse and grey
Told he had worn it many a day,
Threadbare and travel-soil'd;—his beads
And cross hung o'er the dripping weeds,
Whose ample folds were tightly brac'd
By a rough chord around his waist;
No wretch of earth seem'd lower than
That outcast solitary man.

He spoke not—mov'd not from the floor;
But calmly look'd to where the door
Now clos'd behind th' intruding knight,
Who slow advanc'd and held the light
Close to the captive's pallid face,
Who shrunk not from his gaze;—a space
St. Leger paused before he spoke,
And thus at length his silence broke.

“Father, thy lodging is but rude,
“Thou seem'st in need of rest and food,

“If but escaped from Donal's ire,
“And wasting brand and scathing fire;
“But prudent reasons still demand,
“And stern St. Leger's strict command,
“That every stranger, friend or foe,
“Be held in durance, 'till he show
“What, whence, and whither he would go.
“For thee;—if thou canst tell us right,
“Where that fierce outlaw strays to-night,
“To-morrow's sun shall see thee free'd
“With rich requital for thy meed;
“If false thy tale, then, father, hope
“For a short shrift and shorter rope.”

He ceased, and as the chief he eyed
With searching glance, the monk replied,
“I fear no threat,—no meed I crave,
“I ask no freedom but the grave;
“There was a time when life was dear;
“For, Saxon, tho' this garb I wear,
“This hand could once uplift the steel,
“This heart could love and friendship feel;
“That love is sever'd, friends are gone,
“And I am left on earth alone.
“Curs'd be the hand that sear'd my heart,
“And smote me in the tenderest part,
“Laid waste my lands and left me roam
“On the wide world without a home,

“I took these weeds;—but why relate
“The spoiler's ravage and my hate;
“Vengeance I would not now forego
“For saint above or man below.
“Yes, Donal Comm;—but let me hear,
“Fling the glad story to mine ear;
“How fell the outlaw's beauteous bride?
“Say was it by thy hand she died?
“'Twill be some solace, and I swear
“By the all-saving sign I wear,
“Before to-morrow's sun to show
“To thine own eyes thy bitterest foe.”

“'Tis well!” exclaimed the exulting chief,
“Have now thy wish, the tale is brief—
“Some few days since as I pursued
“A stately stag from yonder wood,
“Straight northward did he bend his way,
“Thro' the wild pass of Kaoim-an-é,
“Then to the west with hoof of pride
“He took the mountain's heathery side,
“And evening saw him safely sleep
“In far Glenrochty's forest deep.
“Returning from that weary chase,
“We met a strange and lonely place;
“Dark bosom'd in the hills around,
“From its dim silence rose no sound,
“Except the dreary dash and flow
“Of waters to the lake below;

“There was an island in that lake,—
“(What ails thee monk? why dost thou shake?
“Why blanch'd thy cheek?)—from thence I brought
“A richer prey than that I sought;
“It were but feeble praise to swear
“That she was more than heavenly fair;
“I tore her from Finbarra's shrine
“Amid her tears, and she was mine;
“I woo'd her like a love-sick swain;
“I threaten'd,—would have forced,—in vain;
“She proudly scorn'd my fond embrace,
“She curs'd my land and all its race,
“And bade me hope for vengeance from
“The sure strong arm of Donal Comm.
“I stabb'd her!—'twas a deed of guilt,
“But then 'twas Donal's blood I spilt.”

That Monk sprung forward from the bed,
Flung back his cowl and furious said,
“Monster, behold my promise free,
'Tis Donal Comm himself you see.”—
He started back with sudden cry,
And rais'd the lanthern; O that eye
And vengeful smile he knew too well;
For him not all the fiends of hell
With tortures from their burning place,
Had half the horrors of that face.—
One rush he made to gain the door,
'Twas vain, that monk stood there before.

He shouted loud, and sudden drew
A dagger which lay hid from view;
At Donal's breast one plunge he made;
That watchful arm threw off the blade—
But hark! what noise comes from below
Surely that cry hath rous'd the foe;
They come, they come, with hurrying tramp
And clashing steel,—the fallen lamp,
That mountaineer snatch'd from the ground,
A moment glanc'd his prison round,
Heav'd quickly back a massy bar,
A narrow door-way flew ajar;
A moment cast the light's red glow
Upon the flood, far, far below;
“No flight is there,” St. Leger cried,
“Thou'rt mine.”—“Now, now, my murder'd bride,”
He answer'd, and with furious bound
One arm had clasp'd his foeman round;
A moment with a giant's might,
He shook him o'er that dreadful height;
“Saxon! 'tis Eva gives this grave”
He said, and plung'd him in the wave.

One piercing shriek was heard, no more,
Up flash'd the billow dyed with gore,
When in they burst.—O where to fly!
He fixed his foot and strain'd his eye,
And o'er that deep and fearful tide
Sprung safely to the farther side.

Above they crowd in wild amaze,
And by the hurrying torches' blaze
They saw where fearlessly he stood,
And down, far tost upon the flood
St. Leger's body; “quick to horse—
“Pursue the fiend with all your force,
“Tis Donal Comm.” Light held he then
Pursuit, while mountain, wood, and glen
Before him lay;—a moment's space
He ran, and in th' appointed place
His courser found;—then as his hand
Drew from the copse his trusty brand,
“Twas well I left thee here my blade,
“That search my purpose had betray'd;
“But here they come, now, now my steed
“Son of the hills! exert thy speed.”
He said, and on the moaning wind
Heard their faint foot-tramp die behind.

'Tis morning, and the purple light
On Noc-na-ve gleams coldly bright,
And from his heathery brow, the streams
Rush joyous in the kindling beams;
O'er hill, and wave, and forest red,
One wide blue sea of mist is spread;
Save where more brightly, deeply blue
Ivera's mountains meet the view,
And falls the sun with mellower streak
On Sliav-na-goilas's giant peak.

Still as its dead, is now the breeze,
In Ard-na-mrahir's weeping trees,
So deep its silence, you might tell
Each plashing rain-drop as it fell;
Beneath its brow the waters wild
Are sleeping, like a weary child
That sinks from fretful fit to rest,
On its fond mother's peaceful breast.

On yonder grave cold lies the turf
Besprent with rain and ocean's surf,
So purely, freshly green,
And kneeling by that narrow bed,
With pallid cheek and drooping head,
A lonely form is seen.
Long kneels he there in speechless woe,
Silent as she who lies below
In her cold and silent room;
The trees hang motionless above,
There's not a breath of wind to move
The dripping eagle-plume;
Well might you know that man of grief
To be Ivera's widow'd chief.

He rose at last, and as he took
Of that dear spot his last sad look,
Convulsive trembled all his frame,
He strove to utter Eva's name;
Then wildly rushing to the shore,
Was never seen or heard of more.

Miscellaneous.

GOUGANE BARRA.

There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra,
Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow;
In deep-vallied Desmond—a thousand wild fountains
Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains.
There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow;
As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.
And its zone of dark hills—oh! to see them all brightning.
When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning;
And the waters rush down, mid the thunder's deep rattle,
Like clans from their hills at the voice of the battle;
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,
And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming.
Oh! where is the dwelling in valley, or highland,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island!

How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara,
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,
Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean,
And trod all thy wilds with a Minstrel's devotion,
And thought of thy bards, when assembling together,
In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather,
They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,
And waked their last song by the rush of thy water.
High sons of the lyre, oh! how proud was the feeling,
To think while alone through that solitude stealing,
Though loftier Minstrels green Erin can number,
I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,
And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains
The songs even echo forgot on her mountains,
And gleaned each grey legend, that darkly was sleeping
Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty was creeping.

Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit
The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit,
With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me,
Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me,
Still, still in those wilds may young liberty rally,
And send her strong shout over mountain and valley,
The star of the west may yet rise in its glory,
And the land that was darkest, be brighest in story.

I too shall be gone;—but my name shall be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken;
Some Minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming,
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avon Buee seeks the kisses of ocean,
Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river,
O'er the heart, and the harp, that are sleeping for ever.

TO A SPRIG OF MOUNTAIN HEATH.

Thou little stem of lowly heath!
Nursed by the wild winds hardy breath,
Dost thou survive, unconquer'd still,
Thy stately brethren of the hill?

No more the morning mist shall break,
Around Clogh-grenans towering peak;
The stag no more with glance of pride,
Looks fearless from its hazel side;
But there thou livest lone and free
The Hermit plant of Liberty.

Child of the mountain! many a storm
Hath drench'd thy head and shook thy form,
Since in thy depths Clan-muire lay,
To wait the dawning of that day;
And many a sabre, as it beamed
Forth from its heather scabbard gleamed,
When Leix its vengeance hot did slake
In yonder city of the lake,
And its proud Saxon fortress bore,
The banner green of Reiry More.

Thou wert not then as thou art now,
Upon a bondsman-minstrel's brow;
But wreathing round the harp of Leix,
When to the strife it fired the free,
Or from the helmet battle-sprent,
Waved where the cowering Saxon bent.
Yet blush not, for the bard you crown,
Ne'er stooped his spirit's homage down,
And he can wake tho' rude his skill,
The songs you loved on yonder hill.

Repine not, that no more the spring
Its balmy breath shall round thee fling:
No more the heath-cock's pinion sway,
Shall from thy bosom dash the spray,
More sweet, more blest, thy lot shall prove,
Go—to the breast of her I love,

And speak for me to that blue eye;
Breathe to that heart my fondest sigh;
And tell her in thy softest tone
That he who sent thee is—her own.

Note .—The Fortress alluded to is the Castle of Carlow, built in the time of King John, and still an imposing ruin. Riery More was the Chieftain of Leix (the present Queen's County) in the time of Elizabeth—he was brave, politic, and accomplished above his ruder countrymen of that period; he stormed the Castle of Carlow, which being within the pale, belonged to the English; they never had a more skilful enemy in the country. Riere, Anglice Roger.—Carlow, or Cahir-lough, literally the City of the Lake.—Clough-grenna, the sunny hill. It is near Carlow but in the Queen's County, and was formerly thickly covered with oak.

SPANISH WAR-SONG.

Ye sons of old Iberia, brave Spaniards up, arise,
Along your hills, like distant rills the voice of battle flies;
Once more, with threats of tyranny, come on the host of France;
Ye men of Spain awake again, to Freedom's fight advance.

Like snow upon your mountains, they gather from afar,
To launch upon your olive fields the avalanche of war;
Above the dark'ning Pyrenees their cloud of battle flies,
To burst in thunder on your plains;—brave Spaniards up, arise.

O sons of Viriatus, Hispania's boast and pride,
Who long withstood, in fields of blood, the Roman's battle tide;
Arise again to match his deeds and kindle at his name,
And let its light thro' Freedom's fight, still guide you on to fame.

Descendants of those heroes, in Roman song renown'd,
Whose glorious strife for Liberty with deathless name was crown'd,
Come down again unconquer'd men, like Biscay's ocean roar,
And show yourselves the Cantabers your fathers were of yore.

Saguntum's tale of wonder shines bright upon your page,
And old Numantia's story shall live thro' every age;
Her children sung their farewell song, their own lov'd homes they fir'd,
And in the blaze, 'mid Freedom's rays, all gloriously expired.

TWO VERSES OF THE SPANISH WAR-SONG, NOT IN THE PRINTED COPY.

Long, long each Spanish father his kindling boys shall tell,
How gallantly Gerona fought, how Saragoza fell,
Long, long, above the waves of time those deathless names shall be
A beacon light to all who fight for home or liberty.

Oh, offspring of that hero by Spanish hearts adored,
Who on the proud Morescoe bands his mountain vengeance poured,
Once more to waste your lovely fields come on the hordes of France;
Descendants of Pelayo to Freedom's fight advance.

Songs, Lyrical Pieces, &c.

“SI JE DE PERDS, JE SUIS PERDU.”

[_]

These Stanzas were suggested by an impress on a Seal, representing a boat at sea, and a man at the helm looking up at a solitary star, with a motto—“Si je te perds, je suis perdu.”

Shine on thou bright beacon
Unclouded and free,
From thy high place of calmness
O'er life's troubled sea;
It's morning of promise,
It's smooth waves are gone,
And the billows rave wildly,
Then bright one shine on.

The wings of the tempest
May rush o'er thy ray;
But tranquil thou smilest,
Undimm'd by its sway;

High, high o'er the worlds
Where storms are unknown,
Thou dwellest all beauteous,
All glorious,—alone.

From the deep womb of darkness
The lightning flash leaps,
O'er the bark of my fortunes
Each mad billow sweeps;
From the port of her safety,
By warring winds driven,
And no light o'er her course,
But yon lone one of Heaven.

Yet fear not thou frail one,
The hour may be near,
When our own sunny head-land
Far off shall appear;
When the voice of the storm
Shall be silent and past,
In some island of Heaven
We may anchor at last.

But bark of Eternity,
Where art thou now,
The wild waters shriek
O'er each plunge of thy prow;

On the world's dreary Ocean,
Thus shattered and tost;
Then lone one shine on,
“If I lose thee I'm lost.”

HOW KEEN THE PANG.

How keen the pang when friends must part,
And bid the unwilling last adieu;
When every sigh that rends the heart,
Awakes the bliss that once it knew!

He that has felt alone can tell,
The dreary desert of the mind,
When those whom once we loved so well,
Have left us weeping here behind.

When every look so kindly shed,
And every word so fondly spoken,
And every smile is faded, fled,
And leaves the heart alone and broken.

Yes dearest maid! that grief was mine,
When bending o'er thy shrouded bier,
I saw the form that once was thine;
My Mary was no longer there.

But on the relics pale and cold
There sat a sweet seraphic smile,
A calm celestial grace that told
Our parting was but for a while.

WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY ON ENTERING A CONVENT.

'Tis the rose of the desert,
So lovely so wild,
In the lap of the desert
It's infancy smiled;
In the languish of beauty
It droops o'er the thorn,
And its leaves are all wet
With the bright tears of morn.

Yet 'tis better thou fair one,
To dwell all alone,
Than recline on a bosom
Less pure than thine own;
Thy form is too lovely
To be torn from its stem,
And thy breath is too sweet
For the children of men.

Bloom on thus in secret,
Sweet child of the waste,
Where no lips of profaner,
Thy fragrance shall taste;
Bloom on where no footsteps
Unhallowed hath trod,
And give all thy blushes
And sweets to thy God.

LINES ON A DECEASED CLERGYMAN.

Breathe not his honor'd name,
Silently keep it;
Hush'd be the sadd'ning theme,
In secrecy weep it;
Call not a warmer flow
To eyes that are aching;
Wake not a deeper throe
In hearts that are breaking.

Oh 'tis a placid rest;
Who should deplore it?
Trance of the pure and blest—
Angels watch o'er it;

Sleep of his mortal night,
Sorrow can't break it?
Heaven's own morning light
Alone shall awake it.

Nobly thy course is run;
Splendour is round it;
Bravely thy fight is won;
Freedom hath crown'd it;
In the high warfare
Of heaven, grown hoary,
Thou'rt gone like the summer-sun,
Shrouded in glory.

Twine,—twine the victor wreath,
Spirits that meet him;
Sweet songs of triumph breath,
Seraphs to greet him;
From his high resting place
Who shall him sever,
With his God—face to face,
Leave him for ever.

LINES, ON THE DEATH OF AN AMIABLE AND HIGHLY TALENTED YOUNG MAN, WHO FELL A VICTIM TO FEVER IN THE WEST INDIES.

All rack'd on his feverish bed he lay,
And none but the stranger were near him;
No friend to console, in his last sad day,
No look of affection to cheer him.

Frequent and deep were the groans he drew,
On that couch of torture turning;
And often his hot, wild hand he threw
O'er his brows, still wilder burning.

But, Oh! what anguish his bosom tore,
How throbbed each strong pulse of emotion,
When he thought of the friends he should never see more,
In his own green Isle of the Ocean.

When he thought of the distant maid of his heart,—
Oh, must they thus darkly sever;—
No last farewell, ere his spirit depart;—
Must he leave her unseen, and for ever!

One sigh for that maid his fond heart heaved,
One pray'r for her weal he breathed;
And his eyes to that land for whose woes he had grieved,
Once looked,—and for ever were sheathed.

On a cliff that by footstep is seldom prest,
Far sea-ward its dark head rearing,
A rude stone marks the place of his rest;—
‘Here lies a poor exile of Erin.’

Yet think not, dear Youth, tho' far, far away
From thy own native Isle thou art sleeping,
That no heart for thy slumber is aching to-day,
That no eye for thy mem'ry is weeping.

Oh! yes—when the hearts that have wailed thy young blight,
Some joy from forgetfulness borrow,
The thought of thy doom will come over their light,
And shade them more deeply with sorrow.

And the maid who so long held her home in thy breast,
As she strains her wet eye o'er the billow,
Will vainly embrace, as it comes from the west,
Every breeze that has swept o'er thy pillow.

AND MUST WE PART.

And must we part? then fare thee well;
But he that wails it,—he can tell
How dear thou wert, how dear thou art,
And ever must be to this heart;
But now 'tis vain,—it cannot be;
Farewell! and think no more on me.

Oh! yes—this heart would sooner break,
Than one unholy thought awake;
I'd sooner slumber into clay,
Than cloud thy spirit's beauteous ray;
Go free as air,—as Angel free,
And lady think no more on me.

O did we meet when brighter star
Sent its fair promise from afar,
I then might hope to call thee mine,
The Minstrel's heart and harp were thine;
But now 'tis past,—it cannot be;
Farewell! and think no more on me.

Or do!—but let it be the hour,
When Mercy's all atoning power,
From his high throne of glory hears
Of souls like thine the prayers, the tears,
Then whilst you bend the suppliant knee;
Then, then, O Lady think on me.

PURE IS THE DEWY GEM.

Pure is the dewy gem that sleeps
Within the roses fragrant bed,
And dear the heart-warm drop that steeps
The turf where all we loved is laid;
But far more dear, more pure than they,
The tear that washes guilt away.

Sweet is the morning's balmy breath,
Along the valley's flowery side,
And lovely on the Moon-lit heath,
The lute's soft tone complaining wide;
But still more lovely, sweeter still,
The sigh that wails a life of ill.

Bright is the morning's roseate gleam
Upon the Mountains of the East,
And soft the Moonlight silvery beam,
Above the billow's placid rest;
But O!—what ray ere shone from Heaven
Like God's first smile on a soul forgiven.

[_]

Note. —This trifle was composed before the author read Moore's Paradise and the Peri.

TO ------

Lady—the lyre thou bid'st me take,
No more can breathe the minstrel strain;
The cold and trembling notes I wake,
Fall on the ear like plashing rain;
For days of suffering and of pain,
And nights that lull'd no care for me,
Have tamed my spirit,—then in vain
Thou bid'st me wake my harp for thee.

But could I sweep my ocean lyre,
As once this feeble hand could sweep,
Or catch once more the thought of fire,
That lit the Mizen's stormy steep,

Or bid the fancy cease to sleep,
That once could soar on pinion free,
And dream I was not born to weep;
O then I'd wake my harp for thee.

And now 'tis only friendship's call,
That bids my slumbering lyre awake,
It long hath slept in sorrow's hall,
Again that slumber it must seek;
Not even the light of beauty's cheek,
Or blue eye beaming kind and free,
Can bid its mournful numbers speak;
Then lady, ask no lay from me.

Yet if on Desmond's mountain wild,
By glens I love, or ocean cave,
Nature once more should own her child,
And give the strength that once she gave;
If he who lights my path should save
And what I was I yet may be;
Then lady, by green Erin's wave,
I'll gladly wake my harp for thee.

STANZAS.

[Hours like those I spent with you]

Hours like those I spent with you,
So bright, so passing, and so few,
May never bless me more,—farewell!
My heart can feel but dare not tell,
The rapture of those hours of light,
Thus snatched from sorrow's cheerless night.

'Tis not thy cheek's soft blended hue;
'Tis not thine eye of heavenly blue;
'Tis not the radiance of thy brow,
That thus would win or charm me now,
It is thy heart's warm light that glows,
Like sun-beams on December snows.

It is thy wit that flashes bright,
As lightning on a stormy night,
Illuming even the clouds that roll
Along the darkness of my soul,
And bidding with an Angel's voice,
The heart that knew no joy,—rejoice.

Too late we met,—to soon we part,
Yet dearer to my soul thou art,

Than some whose love has grown for years,
Smiled with my smile, and wept my tears.
Farewell! but absent thou shalt seem,
The vision of some heavenly dream,
Too bright on child of earth to dwell;
It must be so,—my friend farewell.

THE NIGHT WAS STILL.

The night was still,—the air was balm,
Soft dews around were weeping;
No whisper rose o'er ocean's calm,
Its waves in light were sleeping.
With Mary on the beach I stray'd,
The stars beam'd joy above me—
I prest her hand and said, “sweet maid,
“Oh tell me do you love me?”
With modest air she drooped her head,
Her cheek of beauty veiling:
Her bosom heav'd,—no word she said—
I mark'd her strife of feeling;
“Oh speak my doom, dear maid,” I cried,
“By yon bright Heaven above thee;”
She gently raised her eyes and sighed,
“Too well you know I love thee.”

SERENADE.

The blue waves are sleeping;
The breezes are still;
The light dews are weeping
Soft tears on the hill;
The moon in mild beauty,
Looks bright from above;
Then come to the casement,
Oh Mary, my love.

Not a sound, or a motion
Is over the lake,
But the whisper of ripples,
As shoreward they break;
My skiff wakes no ruffle
The waters among,
Then listen, dear maid,
To thy true lover's song.

No form from the lattice
Did ever recline
Over Italy's waters,
More lovely than thine;

Then come to thy window
And shed from above,
One glance of thy dark eye,
One smile of thy love.

Oh! the soul of that eye
When it breaks from its shroud,
Shines beauteously out,
Like the Moon from a cloud;
And thy whisper of love
Breathed thus from afar,
Is sweeter to me
Than the sweetest guitar.

From the storms of this world
How gladly I'd fly,
To the calm of that breast,
To the heaven of that eye!
How deeply I love thee
'Twere useless to tell;
Farewell, then, my dear one,
My Mary, farewell.

ROUSSEAU'S DREAM.

[_]

Air—“Rousseau's Dream.”

Life for me is dark and dreary;
Every light is quenched and gone;
O'er its waste all lone and weary,
Sorrow's child I journey on.
Thou whose smile alone can cheer me,
Whose bright form still haunts my breast,
From this world in pity bear me,
To thy own high home of rest.

Hush!—o'er Leman's sleeping water,
Whispering tones of love I hear;
'Tis some fond unearthly daughter,
Woos me to her own bright sphere.
Immortal beauty! yes, I see thee,
Come, oh! come to this wild breast;
O! I fly—I burn to meet thee,
Take me to thy home of rest.

------ wild Rousseau,
Th' Apostle of affliction, &c.
His was not the love of mortal dame—
[OMITTED] But of ideal beauty, &c.

—Childe Harold.

WHEN EACH BRIGHT STAR IS CLOUDED.

[_]

Air—“Clär Bug Dale.”

When each bright star is clouded that illumin'd our way,
And darkly through the bleak night of life we stray,
What joy then is left us, but alone to weep
O'er the cold dreary pillow where loved ones sleep?

This world has no pleasure that is half so dear,
That can soothe the widow'd bosom like memory's tear
'Tis the desert rose drooping in moon's soft dew,
In those pure drops looks saddest, but softest too.

Oh, if ever death should sever fond hearts from me,
And I linger like the last leaf on Autumn's tree,
While pining o'er the dead mates all sear'd below,
How welcome will the last blast be that lays me low.

HUSSA THA MEASG NA REALTAN MORE.

My love, my still unchanging love,
As fond, as true, as hope above;
Tho' many a year of pain passed by
Since last I heard thy farewell sigh,
This faithful heart doth still adore
Hussa tha measg na realtán more.

What once we hoped might then have been,
But fortune darkly frowned between:
And tho' far distant is the ray
That lights me on my weary way,
I love, and shall 'till life is o'er,
Hussa tha measg na realtán more.

Tho' many a light of beauty shone
Along my path, and lured me on,
I better lov'd thy dark bright eye,
Thy witching smile, thy speaking sigh;
Shine on,—this heart shall still adore
Hussa tha measg na realtán more.

Thou who art amongst the greater Planets.

Sacred Subjects.

THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK.

[_]

From the foot of Inchidony Island, an elevated tract of sand runs out into the sea, and terminates in a high green bank, which forms a pleasing contrast with the little desert behind it, and the black solitary rock immediately under. Tradition tells that the Virgin came one night to this hillock to pray, and was discovered kneeling there by the crew of a Vessel that was coming to anchor near the place. They laughed at her piety, and made some merry and unbecoming remarks on her beauty, upon which a storm arose and destroyed the ship and her crew. Since that time no vessel has been known to anchor near the spot.

Such is the story upon which the following Stanzas are founded.

The evening star rose beauteous above the fading day,
As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came to pray,
And hill and wave shone brightly in the moonlight's mellow fall;
But the bank of green where Mary knelt was brightest of them all.

Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appeared,
And her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to the land she near'd;
To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like a swan,
And her wings of snow o'er the waves below in pride and beauty shone.

The Master saw our Lady as he stood upon the prow,
And marked the whiteness of her robe and the radiance of her brow;
Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stainless breast,
And her eyes look'd up among the stars to Him her soul lov'd best.

He showed her to his sailors, and he hail'd her with a cheer;
And on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with laugh and jeer;
And madly swore, a form so fair they never saw before;
And they curs'd the faint and lagging breeze that kept them from the shore.

The ocean from its bosom shook off the moonlight sheen,
And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their Queen;
And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness o'er the land,
And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady on the strand.

Out burst the pealing thunder, and the light'ning leap'd about,
And rushing with his watery war, the tempest gave a shout,
And that vessel from a mountain wave came down with thund'ring shock,
And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on Inchidony's rock.

Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose wild and high.
But the angry surge swept over them and hush'd their gurgling cry;
And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest pass'd away,
And down, still chafing from their strife, the indignant waters lay.

When the calm and purple morning shone out on high Dunmore,
Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchidony's shore;
And to this day the fisherman shows where the scoffers sank,
And still he calls that hillock green, “the Virgin Mary's bank.”

VERSE OMITTED FROM “THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK.”

And from his brow she wiped the blood and wrung his dripping hair,
And o'er the breathless sailor boy she bent herself in prayer,
And life came rushing to his cheek and his bosom heaved a sigh,
And up the lifeless sailor rose in the mercy of her eye.

MARY MAGDALEN.

To the hall of that feast came the sinful and fair;
She heard in the city that Jesus was there,
She mark'd not the splendour that blaz'd on their board,
But silently knelt at the feet of the Lord.

The hair from her forehead so sad and so meek,
Hung dark o'er the blushes that burn'd on her cheek,
And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame,
It seem'd as her spirit had flown from its frame.

The frown and the murmur went round thro' them all,
That one so unhallow'd should tread in that hall,
And some said the poor would be objects more meet,
For the wealth of the perfumes she shower'd on his feet.

She marked but her Saviour, she spoke but in sighs,
She dar'd not look up to the heaven of his eyes,
And the hot tears gush'd forth at each heave of her breast,
As her lips to his sandal were throbbingly prest.

On the cloud after tempests, as shineth the bow;
In the glance of the sun-beam, as melteth the snow,
He look'd on that lost one—her sins were forgiven,
And Mary went forth in the beauty of Heaven.

SAUL,

HOLDING THE GARMENTS OF THE MURDERERS OF STEPHEN.

The soldier of Christ to the stake was bound,
And the foes of the Lord beset him round;
But his forehead beamed with unearthly light,
As he looked with joy to his last high fight.

Beyond that circle of death was one
Whose hand was unarmed with glaive or stone;
But the garments he held, as apart he stood,
Of the men who were bared for the work of blood.

His form not tall but his bearing high,
And courage sat in his dark deep eye;
His cheek was young, and he seemed to stand,
Like one who was destined for high command.

But the hate of his spirit you well might learn,
From his pale high brow so bent and stern,
And the glance that at times shot angry light,
Like a flash from the depth of a stormy night.

'Twas Saul of Tarsus!—a fearful name,
And wed in the land with sword and flame;
And the faithful of Israel trembled all,
At the deeds that were wrought by the furious Saul.

'Tis done!—the martyr hath slept at last,
And his victor soul to the Lord hath past,
And the murderers' hearts waxed sore with guilt,
As they gazed on the innocent blood they spilt.

But Saul went on in his fiery zeal;
The thirst of his fury no blood could quell;
And he went to Damascus with words of doom
To bury the faithful in dungeon-gloom.

When lo!—as a rock by the lightning riven,
His heart was smote by a voice from Heaven;
And the hater of Jesus loved nought beside,
And died for the name of the crucified.

THE MOTHER OF THE MACABEES

That mother viewed the scene of blood—
Her six unconquered sons were gone—
Tearless she viewed,—beside her stood
Her last,—her youngest,—dearest one;
He looked upon her and he smiled—
Oh! will she save that only child?

“By all my love,—my son,” she said,
“The breast that nursed,—the womb that bore,—
Th' unsleeping care that watched thee,—fed,—
'Till manhood's years required no more;
By all I've wept and prayed for thee,
Now, now, be firm and pity me.

“Look, I beseech thee, on yon heaven,
With its high field of azure light,
Look on this earth, to mankind given,
Array'd in beauty and in might,
And think,—nor scorn thy mother's pray'r,
On him who said it and they were!

“So shall thou not this tyrant fear,
Nor recreant shun the glorious strife;
Behold!—thy battle field is near,
Then go my son, nor heed thy life;
Go!—like thy faithful brothers die,
That I may meet you all on high.”

Like arrow from the bended bow,
He sprang upon the bloody pile—
Like sunrise on the morning's snow,
Was that heroic mother's smile;
He died!—nor feared the tyrant's nod,—
For Judah's law,—and Judah's God.

MOONLIGHT.

'Tis sweet at hush of night
By the calm moon to wander,
And view those isles of light
That float so far beyond her
In that wide sea
Whose waters free

Can find no shore to bound them,
On whose calm breast
Pure spirits rest
With all their glory round them;
Oh! that my soul all free
From bonds of earth, might sever;
Oh! that those isles might be
Her resting place for ever.

When all those glorious spheres
The watch of Heaven are keeping,
And dews, like angel's tears,
Around are gently weeping;
O who is he
That carelessly
On virtue's bound encroaches,
But then will feel
Upon him steal
Their silent sweet reproaches?
Oh! that my soul all free,
From bonds of earth, might sever;
Oh! that those isles might be
Her resting place for ever.

And when in secret sighs
The lonely heart is pining
If we but view those skies
With all their bright host shining,

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While sad we gaze
On their mild rays,
They seem like seraphs smiling,
To joys above,
With looks of love,
The weary spirit wiling;
Oh! that my soul all free,
From bonds of earth, could sever
Oh! that those isles might be
Her resting place for ever.

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Translations from the Irish.

[_]

Though the Irish are undoubtedly of a poetic temperament, yet the popular songs of the lower order are neither numerous, nor in general possessed of much beauty. For this various causes may be assigned; but the most prominent is the division of language which prevails in Ireland. English, though of late years it is gaining ground with great rapidity, is not even yet the popular language in many districts of the country, and thirty years since it was still less so. Few songs therefore were composed in English by humble ministrels, and the few that I know, are of very little value indeed in any point of view. The Poets of the populace confined themselves chiefly to Irish;—a tongue which, whatever may be its capabilities, had ceased to be the language of the great and polished, for centuries before the poetic taste revived in Europe. They were compelled to use a despised dialect, which, moreover, the political divisions of the country had rendered an object of suspicion to the ruling powers. The government and populace were indeed so decidedly at variance, that the topics which the village Bards were obliged to select, were such as often to render the indulgence of their poetic powers rather dangerous. Their heroes were frequently inmates of jails or doomed to the gibbet, and the severe criticism of the cat-o-nine tails might be the lot of the panygerist.

Wales to be sure has produced, and continues to produce her bards, though the Welsh also use a language differing from that of their conquerors. But Wales is so completely dovetailed into England, that resistance to the victorious power was hopeless, and therefore after the first struggles not attempted. The Welsh language was consequently no distinguishing mark

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of a cast determinately hostile to the English domination, and continually the object of suspicion. It was, and is still cultivated by all classes, though I understand not as much as formerly. The case was quite different in Ireland. No gentleman has used Irish as his common language for generations; multitudes do not understand a word of it; it was left to the lower orders exclusively, and they were depressed and uneducated, and consequently wild and illiterate.

Let no zealous countryman of mine imagine that I am going to impeach the ancient fame of our Bards and Senachies, or to abandon our claims, or the glories, such as they are, of the Ossianic fragments. I merely speak of the state of popular Irish poetry during the last century, or century and a half. With our ancient Minstrels I meddle not. Ossian I leave to his wrangling commentators, and still more wrangling antiquaries; and for the bards of more modern times, (those for instance who flourished in the days of Elizabeth,) I accept the compliment of Spencer, who knew them well and hated them bitterly. But the poetic sympathies of the mighty Ministrel of Old Mole, could not allow his political feelings to hinder him from acknowledging in his View of Ireland that he had caused several songs of the Irish bards to be translated that he might understand them, “and surely” he says “they savoured of sweet wit and good invention, but skilled not of the goodly ornaments of poetry; yea, they were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device which gave good grace and comelinesse unto them, the which, it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which with good usage would serve to adorne and beautifie virtue.”

The following songs are specimens of the popular poetry of later days. I have translated them as closely as possible, and present them to the public more as literary curiosities than on any other account.

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DIRGE OF O'SULLIVAN BEAR.

[_]

In 17---, one of the O'Sullivans of Bearhaven who went by name of Morty Oge, fell under the vengeance of the Law. He had long been a turbulent character in the wild district which he inhabited, and was particularly obnoxious to the local authorities, who had good reason to suspect him of enlisting men for the Irish Brigade in the French service, in which it was said he held a Captain's Commission.

Information of his raising these “wild geese,” (the name by which such recruits were known) was given by a Mr. Puxley, on whom in consequence O'Sullivan vowed revenge, which he executed by shooting him on Sunday, while on his way to church. This called for the interposition of the higher powers, and accordingly a party of military were sent round from Cork to attack O'Sullivan's house. He was daring and well armed, and the house was fortified, so that he made an obstinate defence. At last a confidential servant of his, named Scully, was bribed to wet the powder in the guns and pistols prepared for his defence, which rendered him powerless. He attempted to escape; but while springing over a high wall in the rere of his house, he received a mortal wound in the back. They tied his body to a boat and dragged it in that manner through the sea, from Bearhaven to Cork, where his head was cut off and fixed on the county jail, where it remained for several years.

Such is the story current among the lower orders about Bearhaven. In the version given of it in the rude chronicle of the local occurrences of Cork, there is no mention made of Scully's perfidy, and perhaps that circumstance might have been added by those by whom O'Sullivan was deemed a hero, in order to save his credit as much as possible. The dirge was

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composed by his nurse, who has made no sparing use of the energy of cursing, which the Irish language is by all allowed to possess.

(In the following song, Morty, in Irish, Muiertach, or Muircheartach, is a name very common among the old families of Ireland. It signifies expert at sea; Og, or Oge is young.— Where a whole district is peopled in a great measure by a sept of one name, such distinguishing titles are necessary, and in some cases even supersede the original appellation. I-vera or Aoi-vera is the original name of Bearhaven; Aoi, or I, signifying an island, or territory.)

The sun upon Ivera
No longer shines brightly;
The voice of her music
No longer is sprightly;
No more to her maidens
The light dance is dear,
Since the death of our darling,
O'Sullivan Bear.

Scully! thou false one,
You basely betray'd him;
In his strong hour of need
When thy right hand should aid him;
He fed thee;—he clad thee;—
You had all could delight thee;
You left him;—you sold him;—
May Heaven requite thee!

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Scully! may all kinds
Of evil attend thee;
On thy dark road of life
May no kind one befriend thee;
May fevers long burn thee,
And agues long freeze thee;
May the strong hand of God
In his red anger seize thee.

Had he died calmly,
I would not deplore him,
Or if the wild strife
Of the sea-war closed o'er him;
But with ropes round his white limbs,
Through ocean to trail him,
Like a fish after slaughter!—
'Tis therefore I wail him.

Long may the curse
Of his people pursue them;
Scully that sold him,
And soldier that slew him,
One glimpse of Heaven's light
May they see never;
May the hearth-stone of hell
Be their best bed for ever!

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In the hole which the vile hands
Of soldier's had made thee,
Unhonoured, unshrouded,
And headless they laid thee;
No sigh to regret thee,
No eye to rain o'er thee,
No dirge to lament thee,
No friend to deplore thee.

Dear head of my darling,
How gory and pale,
These aged eyes saw thee
High spiked on their gaol;
That cheek in the summer sun
Ne'er shall grow warm,
Nor that eye e'er catch light,
But the flash of the storm.

A curse, blessed ocean,
Is on thy green water,
From the haven of Cork
To Ivera of slaughter,
Since the billows were dyed
With the red wounds of fear,
Of Muiertach Oge,
Our O'Sullivan Bear.

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THE GIRL I LOVE.

Súd i síos an caóin ban álain óg.

[_]

A large proportion of the songs I have met with are love songs. Somehow or other, truly or untruly, the Irish have obtained a character for gallantry, and the peasantry beyond doubt do not belie the “soft impeachment.” Their modes of courtship, are sometimes amusing. The “malo me Galatea petit” of Virgil would still find a counterpart among them— except that the missile of love (which I am afraid is not so poetical as the apple of the pastoral, being neither more or less than a potato), comes first from the gentleman. He flings it with aim designedly erring at his sweetheart, and if she returns the fire a warmer advance concludes the preliminaries and establishes the suitor. Courtships, however, are sometimes carried on among them with a delicacy worthy of a more refined stage of society, and unchastity is very rare. This perhaps is in a great degree occasioned by their extremely early marriages, the advantage or disadvantage of which I give to be discussed by Mr. Malthus and his antagonists.

At their dances (of which they are very fond), whether a-field, or in ale-house, a piece of gallantry frequently occurs which is alluded to in the following song. A young man, smitten suddenly by the charms of a danseuse, belonging to a company to which he is a stranger, rises, and with his best bow offers her his glass and requests her to drink to him. After due refusal it is usually accepted, and is looked on as a

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good omen of successful wooing. Goldsmith alludes to this custom of his country in the Deserted Village:—

The coy maid, half willing to be prest,
Shall kiss the cup, and pass it to the rest.

The parties may be totally unacquainted, and perhaps never meet again, under which circumstances it would appear that this song was written.

The girl I love is comely, straight and tall,
Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall,
Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free—
Here's a health to that charming maid whoe'er she be!

The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek,
Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and meek,
Her lips like cherries on a summer tree—
Here's a health to the charming maid whoe'er she be!

When I go to the field no youth can lighter bound,
And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes round;
The barrel is full, but its heart we soon shall see—
Come here's to that charming maid whoe'er she be!

Had I the wealth that props the Saxon's reign,
Or the diamond crown that decks the King of Spain,
I'd yield them all if she kindly smiled on me—
Here's a health to the maid I love whoe'er she be!

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Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair I'd pay,
And five times five, for my love one hour each day;
Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its own green tree—
Then my dear may I drink a fond deep health to thee!

THE CONVICT OF CLONMEL.

Is dubac é mo cás.

[_]

Who the hero of this song is, I know not, but convicts. from obvious reasons, have been peculiar objects of sympathy in Ireland. Hurling, which is mentioned in one of the verses, is the principal national diversion, and is played with intense zeal by parish against parish, barony against barony, county against county, or even province against province. It is played not only by the peasant, but by the patrician students of the University, where it is an established pastime. Twiss, the most sweeping calumniator of Ireland, calls it, if I mistake not, the cricket of barbarians, but though fully prepared to pay every tribute to the elegance of the English game, I own that I think the Irish sport fully as civilized, and much better calculated for the display of vigour and activity. Perhaps I shall offend Scottish nationality if I prefer either to golf, which is, I think, but trifling compared with them. In the room belonging to the Golf Club on the Links of Leith, there hangs a picture of an old lord (Rosslyn) which I never could look at without being struck with the disproportion between the gaunt figure of the peer and the petty instrument in his hand. Strutt, in “Sports and Pastimes,” (page 78) eulogises the activity of some

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Irishmen, who played the game about twenty-five years before the publication of his work (1801), at the back of the British Museum, and deduces it from the Roman harpastum. It was played in Cornwall formerly, he adds: but neither the Romans nor the Cornishmen used a bat, or, as we call it in Ireland, a hurly. The description Strutt quotes from old Carew is quite graphic. The late Dr. Gregory, I am told, used to be loud in panegyric on the superiority of this game when played by the Irish students, over that adopted by his young countrymen north and south of the Tweed, particularly over golf, which he called “fidding wi' a pick;” but enough of this—

How hard is my fortune
And vain my repining;
The strong rope of fate
For this young neck is twining!
My strength is departed,
My cheeks sunk and sallow,
While I languish in chains
In the gaol of Clonmala.

No boy of the village
Was ever yet milder;
I'd play with a child
And my sport would be wilder;
I'd dance without tiring
From morning 'till even,
And the goal-ball I'd strike
To the light'ning of Heaven.

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At my bed foot decaying
My hurl-bat is lying;
Through the boys of the village
My goal-ball is flying;
My horse 'mong the neighbours
Neglected may fallow,
While I pine in my chains
In the gaol of Clonmala.

Next Sunday the patron
At home will be keeping,
And the young active hurlers
The field will be sweeping;
With the dance of fair maidens
The evening they'll hallow,
While this heart once so gay
Shall be cold in Clonmalla.

Clonmala, i.e., the solitude of deceit, the Irish name of Clonmel.

Patron,—Irish Patruin,—a festive gathering of the people on tented ground.

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THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE.

O many a day have I made good ale in the glen,
That came not of stream, or malt, like the brewing of men.
My bed was the ground, my roof, the greenwood above,
And the wealth that I sought—one far kind glance from my love.

Alas! on that night when the horses I drove from the field,
That I was not near from terror my angel to shield.
She stretched forth her arms,—her mantle she flung to the wind,
And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find

O would that a freezing sleet-winged tempest did sweep,
And I and my love were alone far off on the deep!
I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace to save,—
With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or the wave.

'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its sides,
The maid of my heart, the fair one of Heaven resides—
I think as at eve she wanders its mazes along,
The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of her song.

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Jacobite Songs.

[_]

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!

118

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

119

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:—

129

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.

133

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.

134

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!

135

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!

136

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!

137

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!

138

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.

139

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.

140

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.

141

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.

142

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.

143

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!

THE END.