 | The Poems of J. J. Callanan |  |
65
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.
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!
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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.
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.
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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?
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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,
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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.
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.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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.
| The Poems of J. J. Callanan | |