The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere

That Angel whose charge is Eire sang thus o'er the dark isle winging:
By a virgin his song was heard at a tempest's ruinous close:
‘Three golden ages God gave while your tender cornblade was springing:
Faith's earliest harvest is reap'd. To-day God sends you Three Woes.

‘For ages three, without Laws ye shall flee as beasts in the forest:
For an age, and a half age, Faith shall bring not peace but a sword:
Then Laws shall rend you like eagles, sharp-fang'd, of your scourges the sorest:
When these Three Woes are past, look up, for your Hope is restored.

‘The times of your dole shall be twice the time of your foregone glory:
But fourfold at last shall lie the grain on your granary floor:’

The seas in vapour shall fleet, and in ashes the mountains hoary:
Let God do that which He wills. Let His People endure and adore!

THE WARNINGS.

A.D. 1170.

I

In the heaven were Portents dire:
On the earth were sign and omen:
Bleeding stars and rain of fire
Dearth and plague foreran the foemen.
Causeless tremors on the crowd
Fell, and strong men wept aloud:
Ere the Northmen cross'd the seas
Said the bards, were signs like these.

II

Aodh saw at break of day
An oak with blood-beads on its lichen:—
All its branches rushed one way,
Like an army panic-stricken.
Aodh cried, ‘I see a host
That flees as one that flies a ghost.’
Mad he died at noon: ere night
The Stranger's sails were up in sight.

III

Time was given us to repent:
Prophets smote us, plain and city:

But we scorn'd each warning sent,
And outwrestled God's great pity.
'Twixt the blood-stained brother bands
Mitred Laurence raised his hands,
Raised Saint Patrick's cross on high:
We despised him; and we die.

A BARD SONG.

I

Our Kings sat of old in Emania and Tara:
Those new kings whence come they? Their names are unknown!
Our Saints lie entomb'd in Ardmagh and Killdara;
Their relics are healing; their graves are grass-grown.
Our princes of old, when their warfare was over,
As pilgrims forth wander'd; as hermits found rest:
Shall the hand of the stranger their ashes uncover
In Benchor the holy, in Aran the blest?

II

Not so, by the race our Dalriada planted!
In Alba were children; we sent her a man.

Battles won in Argyle in Dunedin they chanted;
King Kenneth completed what Fergus began.
Our name is her name: she is Alba no longer:
Her kings are our blood, and she crowns them at Scone;
Strong-hearted they are, and strong-handed, but stronger
When throned on our Lia Fail, Destiny's stone.

Innumerable authorities—Irish, English, and Scotch— record that beginning of Scotch, as distinguished from Caledonian, history, the establishment of an Irish colony in Western Scotland, at that time named Alba—a colony from which that noble country derived its later name, the chief part of its population, and its Royal House, from which, through the Stuarts, our present Sovereign is descended. This settlement is recorded by the Venerable Bede.

THE DIRGE OF THE INVADERS;

OR, THE HOUSE NORMAN.

[_]

Among the churches sacked and burnt by Dermod and his Norman allies, was that of the Monastery of Kells, to which the headship of the great Order of St. Columba had been transferred several centuries previously, when Iona was wasted by the Danes. The monks are here supposed to have been interrupted, while celebrating the obsequies of their slaughtered brethren, by the return of the despoilers.

I

The walls are black: but the floor is red!
Blood!—there is blood on the convent floor!
Woe to the mighty: that blood they shed:
Woe, woe, de Bohun! Woe, woe, le Poer!
Fitz-Walter, beware! the years are strong:
De Burgh, de Burgh! God rights the wrong.
Ye have murder'd priests: the hour draws nigh
When your sons unshriven, without priest, shall die.

II

Toll for the Mighty Ones: brethren toll!
They stand astonish'd! what seek they here?

Through tower and through turret the winds on roll,
But the yellow lights shake not around the bier.
They are here unbidden!—stand back, ye proud!
God shapes the empires as wind the cloud.
The offence must come: but the deed is sin:
Toll the death-bell: the death-psalms begin.

III

The happy Dead with God find rest:
For them no funeral bell we toll.
Fitz-Hugh! Death sits upon thy crest!
De Clare! Death sits upon thy soul!
Toll, monks, the death-bell; toll for them
Who masque under helmet and diadem:
Death's masque is Sin. The living are they
Who live with God in eternal day!

IV

Fitz-Maurice is sentenced! Sound, monks, his knell!
As Roderick fell must de Courcy fall.
Toll for Fitz-Gerald the funeral bell:
The blood of O'Ruark is on Lacy's wall.
The lions are ye of the robber kind!
But when ye lie old in your dens and blind
The wolves and the jackals on you shall prey,
From the same shore sent. Beware that day!

V

Toll for the Conquerors: theirs the doom!
For the great House Norman: its bud is nipt!
Ah, princely House, when your hour is come
Your dirge shall be sung not in church but crypt!

We mourn you in time. A baser scourge
Than yours that day will forbid the dirge!
Two thousand years to the Gael God gave:
Four hundred shall open the Norman's grave!

Thus with threne and with stern lament
For their brethren dead the old monks made moan
In the convent of Kells, the first day of Lent,
One thousand one hundred and seventy-one.

PECCATUM PECCAVIT.

A BARD SONG.

I

Where is thy brother? Heremon, speak!
Heber the son of Milesius, thy sire?
The orphans' wail and the widow's shriek
For ever ring on the air of Eire!
And whose, O whose was the sword, Heremon,
That smote Amergin, thy brother and bard?—
The Fate of thy house or a mocking Demon
Upheaved thy hand o'er his forehead scarr'd!

II

Woe, woe to Eire! That blood of brothers
Wells up from her bosom renewed each year;
'Twas hers the shriek—that desolate Mother's:—
'Twas Eire that wept o'er that first red bier!

The priest has warn'd, and the bard lamented:
But warning and wailing her sons despised;
The head was sage, and the heart half-sainted;
But the sword-hand was evermore unbaptised!

Between the brothers who founded the great Milesian or Gaelic dynasty in Ireland, about B.C. 760, there was strife, as between the brothers who founded Rome nearly at the same date. Heremon and Heber divided Ireland between them. A dispute having arisen between them, a battle was fought at Geashill, in the present King's County, in which Heber fell by his brother's hand. This may be called Ireland's ‘Original Sin,’ the typical fount of many woes. In the second year of his reign Heremon also slew his brother, Amergin, in battle.

THE MALISON.

I

The Curse of that land which in ban and in blessing
Hath puissance through prayer and through penance, alight
On the False One who whisper'd, the Traitor's hand pressing,
‘I ride without guards in the morning—good-night!’
O beautiful serpent! O woman fiend-hearted!
Wife false to O'Ruark! Queen base to thy trust!
The glory of ages for ever departed
That hour from the isle of the saintly and just.

II

The Curse of that land on the princes disloyal,
Who welcomed the Invader, and knelt at his knee!
False Dermod, false Donald—the chieftains once royal
Of the Deasies and Ossory, cursed let them be!
Their name and their shame make eternal. Engrave them
On the cliffs which the great billows buffet and stain:
Like billows the nations, when tyrants enslave them,
Swell up in their vengeance—not always in vain!

III

But praise in the churches and worship and honour
To him who, betray'd and deserted, fought on!
All praise to King Roderick, the chief of Clan-Connor,
The King of all Erin, and Cathall his son!
May the million-voiced chant that in endless expansion
Rolls onward through heaven his praises prolong;
May the heaven of heavens this night be the mansion
Of the good king who died in the cloisters of Cong!

The story of the Irish Helen is well known. Dervorgil, the wife of O'Ruark, Prince of Breffny, fled with Dermod Mac Murrough, King of Leinster. The latter, on his deposition, went to England, where he contracted alliances with Henry II. and Strongbow against Roderick O'Connor, the last Gaelic king of all Ireland. Dervorgil ultimately found a refuge at Mellifont, where she lived in penance and works of charity. Dermod died at Ferns, under circumstances of strange horror. Exhausted by domestic discords, as well as the calamities of his country, Roderick retired to the monastery he had founded at Cong. He died there at the age of eighty-two, and was interred at Clonmacnoise, the burial-place of the Irish kings.

THE LEGENDS.

A BARD SONG.

I

The woods rose slowly; the clouds sail'd on;
Man trod not yet the island wide:
A ship drew near from the rising sun;—
At the helm was the Scythian Parricide.
Battles were lost and battles were won;
New lakes burst open; old forests died:
For ages once more in the land was none:
God slew the race of the Parricide.

II

There is nothing that lasts save the Pine and Bard:
I, Fintan the bard, was living then!
Tall grows the Pine upon Slieve-Donard:
It dies: in the loud harp it lives again.
Give praise to the bard and a huge reward!
Give praise to the bard that gives praise to men:
My curse upon Aodh, the priest of Skard,
Who jeers at the bard-songs of Ikerren!

THE LEGENDS.

A BARD SONG.

I

Dead is the Prince of the Silver Hand,
And dead Eochy the son of Erc!
Ere lived Milesius they ruled the land
Thou hast ruled and lost in turn, O'Ruark!

Two thousand years have pass'd since then,
And clans and kingdoms in blind commotion
Have butted at heaven and sunk again
As great waves sink in the depths of ocean.

II

Last King of the Gaels of Eire, be still!
What God decrees must come to pass:
There is none that soundeth His way or will:
His hand is iron, and earth is glass.
Where built the Firbolgs shrieks the owl;
The Tuatha bequeath'd but the name of Eire:
Roderick, our last of kings, thy cowl
Outweighs the crown of thy kingly sire!

THE FAITHFUL NORMAN.

I

Praise to the valiant and faithful foe!
Give us noble foes, not the friend who lies!
We dread the drugg'd cup, not the open blow;
We dread the old hate in the new disguise.
To Ossory's Prince they had pledged their word:
He stood in their camp, and their pledge they broke;
Then Maurice the Norman upraised his sword;
The Cross on its hilt he kiss'd, and spoke:

II

‘So long as this sword or this arm hath might
I swear by the Cross which is lord of all,

By the faith and honour of noble and knight
Who touches yon Prince by this hand shall fall!’
So side by side through the throng they pass'd;
And Eire gave praise to the just and true.
Brave foe! the Past truth heals at last:
There is room in the great heart of Eire for you!

SONG.

I

Willow-like maid with the long loose tresses,
With locks like Diarba's, and fairy foot,
That gatherest up from the streamlet its cresses,
Above that caroller bending mute,
Those tresses black in a fillet bind,
Or beware of Manannan the god of the wind!

II

No fear of the Stranger with feet like those;
No fear of the robbers that couch in the glen:
But the Wind-god blows on thy cheek a rose,
Then back returns to kiss it again.
Manannan, they say, is the God in air—
So sang the Tuatha—Bind close thy hair!

III

The red on her cheek was brightening still;
A smile ran o'er it and made reply
As she cast from the darkling and sparkling rill
The flash of a darkling and sparkling eye;
Then over her shoulder her long locks flung
And homeward tripp'd with a mirthful song.

THE LEGENDS.

A BARD SONG.

I

They fought ere sunrise at Tor Conainn;
All day they fought on the hoarse sea-shore;
The sun dropp'd downward; they fought amain;
The tide rose upward; they fought the more.
The sands were cover'd; the sea grew red;
The warriors fought in the reddening wave;
That night the sea was the Sea-King's bed;
The Land-King drifted by cliff and cave.

II

Great was the rage in those ancient days
(We were pagans then) in the land of Eire;
Like eagles men vanquish'd the noontide blaze;
Their bones were granite; their nerves were wire.
We are hinds to-day! The Nemedian kings
Like elk and bison of old stalk'd forth;
Their name—the ‘Sea Kings’—for ever clings
To the ‘Giant Stepping Stones’ round the North.

THE BARD ETHELL.

THIRTEENTH CENTURY.

I.

I am Ethell, the son of Conn;
Here I bide at the foot of the hill;
I am clansman to Brian and servant to none;
Whom I hated I hate; whom I loved love still.

Blind am I. On milk I live,
And meat (God sends it) on each Saint's Day,
Though Donald Mac Art—may he never thrive—
Last Shrovetide drove half my kine away!

II.

At the brown hill's base, by the pale blue lake,
I dwell, and see the things I saw;
The heron flap heavily up from the brake,
The crow fly homeward with twig or straw,
The wild duck, a silver line in wake,
Cutting the calm mere to far Bunaw.
And the things that I heard though deaf I hear;
From the tower in the island the feastful cheer;
The horn from the wood; the plunge of the stag,
With the loud hounds after him, down from the crag.
Sweet is the chase, but the battle is sweeter;
More healthful, more joyous, for true men meeter!

III.

My hand is weak; it once was strong:
My heart burns still with its ancient fire:
If any man smites me he does me wrong,
For I was the Bard of Brian Mac Guire.
If any man slay me—not unaware,
By no chance blow, nor in wine and revel,
I have stored beforehand a curse in my prayer
For his kith and kindred: his deed is evil.

IV.

There never was King, and there never will be,
In battle or banquet like Malachi!
The Seers his reign had predicted long;
He honour'd the Bards, and gave gold for song.

If rebels arose he put out their eyes;
If robbers plunder'd or burn'd the fanes
He hung them in chaplets, like rosaries,
That others, beholding, might take more pains:
There was none to women more reverent-minded,
For he held his mother, and Mary, dear;
If any man wrong'd them that man he blinded
Or straight amerced him of hand or ear.
There was none who founded more convents—none;
In his palace the old and poor were fed;
The orphan walked, and the widow's son,
Without groom or page to his throne or bed.
In council he mused, with great brows divine,
And eyes like the eyes of the musing kine,
Upholding a Sceptre o'er which, men said,
Seven Spirits of Wisdom like fire-tongues played.
He drain'd ten lakes and he built ten bridges;
He bought a gold book for a thousand cows;
He slew ten Princes who brake their pledges;
With the bribed and the base he scorn'd to carouse.
He was sweet and awful; through all his reign
God gave great harvests to vale and plain;
From his nurse's milk he was kind and brave:
And when he went down to his well-wept grave
Through the triumph of penance his soul uprose
To God and the Saints. Not so his foes!

V.

The King that came after! ah woe, woe, woe!
He doubted his friend and he trusted his foe.
He bought and he sold: his kingdom old
He pledged and pawn'd to avenge a spite:
No Bard or prophet his birth foretold:
He was guarded and warded both day and night:

He counsell'd with fools and had boors at his feast;
He was cruel to Christian and kind to beast:
Men smiled when they talk'd of him far o'er the wave:
Paid were the mourners that wept at his grave!
God plagued for his sake his people sore:—
They sinn'd; for the people should watch and pray
That their prayers, like angels at window and door,
May keep from the King the bad thought away!

VI.

The sun has risen: on lip and brow
He greets me—I feel it—with golden wand.
Ah, bright-faced Norna! I see thee now;
Where first I saw thee I see thee stand!
From the trellis the girl look'd down on me:
Her maidens stood near: it was late in spring:
The grey priests laugh'd as she cried in glee
‘Good Bard, a song in my honour sing!’
I sang her praise in a loud-voiced hymn
To God who had fashion'd her, face and limb,
For the praise of the clan and the land's behoof:
So she flung me a flower from the trellis roof.
Ere long I saw her the hill descending—
O'er the lake the May morning rose moist and slow:
She pray'd me (her smile with the sweet voice blending)
To teach her all that a woman should know.
Panting she stood: she was out of breath:
The wave of her little breast was shaking:
From eyes still childish and dark as death
Came womanhood's dawn through a dew-cloud breaking.

Norna was never long time the same:
By a spirit so strong was her slight form moulded
The curves swell'd out from the flower-like frame
In joy; in grief to a bud she folded:
As she listen'd her eyes grew bright and large
Like springs rain-fed that dilate their marge.

VII.

So I taught her the hymn of Patrick the Apostle,
And the marvels of Bridget and Columkille:
Ere long she sang like the lark or the throstle,
Sang the deeds of the servants of God's high Will:
I told her of Brendon who found afar
Another world 'neath the western star;
Of our three great bishops in Lindisfarne isle;
Of St. Fursey the wondrous, Fiacre without guile;
Of Sedulius, hymn-maker when hymns were rare;
Of Scotus the subtle who clove a hair
Into sixty parts, and had marge to spare.
To her brother I spake of Oisin and Fionn,
And they wept at the death of great Oisin's son.

I taught the heart of the boy to revel
In tales of old greatness that never tire,
And the virgin's, up-springing from earth's low level,
To wed with heaven like the altar fire.
I taught her all that a woman should know:
And that none might teach her worse lore I gave her
A dagger keen, and I taught her the blow
That subdues the knave to discreet behaviour.
A sand-stone there on my knee she set,
And sharpen'd its point—I can see her yet—
I held back her hair and she sharpen'd the edge
While the wind piped low through the reeds and sedge.

VIII.

She died in the convent on Ina's height:
I saw her the day that she took the veil:
As slender she stood as the Paschal light,
As tall and slender and bright and pale!
I saw her; and dropp'd as dead: bereaven
Is earth when her holy ones leave her for heaven:
Her brother fell in the fight at Beigh:
May they plead for me, both, on my dying day!

IX.

All praise to the man who brought us the Faith!
'Tis a staff by day and our pillow in death!
All praise, I say, to that blessed youth
Who heard in a dream from Tyrawley's strand
That wail, ‘Put forth o'er the sea thy hand;
In the dark we die: give us Hope and Truth!’
But Patrick built not on Iorras' shore
That convent where now the Franciscans dwell:

Columba was mighty in prayer and war;
But the young monk preaches as loud as his bell
That love must rule all and all wrongs be forgiven,
Or else, he is sure, we shall reach not heaven!
This doctrine I count right cruel and hard:
And when I am laid in the old churchyard
The habit of Francis I will not wear;
Nor wear I his cord, or his cloth of hair
In secret. Men dwindle: till psalm and prayer
Had soften'd the land no Dane dwelt there!

X.

I forgive old Cathbar who sank my boat:
Must I pardon Feargal who slew my son;
Or the pirate, Strongbow, who burn'd Granote,
They tell me, and in it nine priests, a nun,
And—worst—Saint Finian's old crosier staff?
At forgiveness like that I spit and laugh!
My chief, in his wine-cups, forgave twelve men;
And of these a dozen rebell'd again!
There never was chief more brave than he!
The night he was born Loch Gur up-burst:
He was bard-loving, gift-making, loud of glee,
The last to fly, to advance the first.
He was like the top spray upon Uladh's oak,
He was like the tap-root of Argial's pine:
He was secret and sudden: as lightning his stroke:
There was none that could fathom his hid design!
He slept not: if any man scorn'd his alliance
He struck the first blow for a frank defiance
With that look in his face, half night half light,
Like the lake gust-blacken'd yet ridged with white!
There were comely wonders before he died:
The eagle barked and the Banshee cried;

The witch-elm wept with a blighted bud:
The spray of the torrent was red with blood:
The chief, return'd from the mountain's bound,
Forgat to question of Bran, his hound.
We knew he would die: three days were o'er;
He died. We waked him for three days more.
One by one, upon brow and breast
The whole clan kiss'd him. In peace may he rest!

XI.

I sang his dirge. I could sing that time
Four thousand staves of ancestral rhyme:
To-day I can scarcely sing the half:
Of old I was corn and now I am chaff!
My song to-day is a breeze that shakes
Feebly the down on the cygnet's breast:
'Twas then a billow the beach that rakes,
Or a storm that buffets the mountain's crest.
Whatever I bit with a venomed song
Grew sick, were it beast, or tree, or man:
The wrong'd one sued me to right his wrong
With the flail of the Satire and fierce Ode's fan.
I sang to the chieftains: each stock I traced
Lest lines should grow tangled through fraud or haste.
To princes I sang in a loftier tone,
Of Moran the Just who refused a throne;
Of Moran whose torque would close, and choke
The wry-necked witness that falsely spoke.
I taught them how to win love and hate,
Not love from all; and to shun debate.
To maids in the bower I sang of love:
And of war at the feastings in bawn or grove.

XII.

Great is our Order; but greater far
Were its pomp and power in the days of old,
When the five Chief Bards in peace or war
Had thirty bards each in his train enroll'd;
When Ollave Fodhla in Tara's hall
Fed bards and kings: when the boy, king Nial,
Was train'd by Torna: when Britain and Gaul
Sent crowns of laurel to Dallan Forgial.
To-day we can launch the clans into fight:
That day we could freeze them in mid career!
Whatever man knows was our realm by right:
The lore without music no Gael would hear.
Old Cormac, the brave blind king, was bard
Ere fame rose yet of O'Daly and Ward.
The son of Milesius was bard—‘Go back,
My People,’ he sang; ‘ye have done a wrong!
Nine waves go back o'er the green sea track;
Let your foes their castles and coasts make strong.
To the island ye came by stealth and at night:
She is ours if we win her in all men's sight!’
For that first song's sake let our bards hold fast
To Truth and Justice from first to last!
'Tis over! some think we err'd through pride,
Though Columba the vengeance turned aside.
Too strong we were not: too rich we were:
Give wealth to knaves:—'tis the true man's snare!

XIII.

But now men lie: they are just no more:
They forsake the old ways: they quest for new:
They pry and they snuff after strange false lore
As dogs hunt vermin! It never was true:—

I have scorn'd it for twenty years—this babble
That eastward and southward a Saxon rabble
Have won great battles, and rule large lands,
And plight with daughters of ours their hands!
We know the bold Norman o'erset their throne
Long since! Our lands! Let them guard their own!

XIV.

How long He leaves me—the great God—here!
Have I sinn'd some sin, or has God forgotten?
This year I think is my hundredth year:
I am like a bad apple, unripe yet rotten!
They shall lift me ere long, they shall lay me—the clan—
By the strength of men on mount Cruachan!
God has much to think of! How much he hath seen
And how much is gone by that once hath been!
On sandy hills where the rabbits burrow
Are Raths of Kings men name not now:
On mountain tops I have tracked the furrow
And found in forests the buried plough.
For one now living the strong land then
Gave kindly food and raiment to ten.
No doubt they wax'd proud and their God defied;
So their harvest He blighted or burned their hoard;
Or He sent them plague, or He sent the sword:
Or He sent them lightning; and so they died
Like Dathi, the king, on the dark Alp's side.

XV.

Ah me that man who is made of dust
Should have pride toward God! 'Tis a demon's spleen!

I have often fear'd lest God, the All-just,
Should bend from heaven and sweep earth clean,
Should sweep us all into corners and holes,
Like dust of the house-floor, both bodies and souls!
I have often fear'd He would send some wind
In wrath; and the nation wake up stone-blind.
In age or in youth we have all wrought ill:
I say not our great king Nial did well,
Although he was Lord of the Pledges Nine
When, beside subduing this land of Eire,
He raised in Armorica banner and sign,
And wasted the British coast with fire.
Perhaps in His mercy the Lord will say,
‘These men! God's help! 'Twas a rough boy play!’
He is certain—that young Franciscan Priest—
God sees great sin where men see least:
Yet this were to give unto God the eye
Unmeet the thought, of the humming fly!
I trust there are small things He scorns to see
In the lowly who cry to Him piteously.
Our hope is Christ. I have wept full oft
He came not to Eire in Oisin's time;
Though love, and those new monks, would make men soft
If they were not harden'd by war and rhyme.
I have done my part: my end draws nigh:
I shall leave old Eire with a smile and sigh:
She will miss not me as I miss'd my son:
Yet for her, and her praise, were my best deeds done.
Man's deeds! man's deeds! they are shades that fleet,
Or ripples like those that break at my feet.
The deeds of my chief and the deeds of my King
Grow hazy, far seen, like the hills in spring.

Nothing is great save the death on the Cross!
But Pilate and Herod I hate, and know
Had Fionn lived then he had laid them low
Though the world thereby had sustain'd great loss.
My blindness and deafness and aching back
With meekness I bear for that suffering's sake;
And the Lent-fast for Mary's sake I love,
And the honour of Him, the Man above!
My songs are all over now:—so best!
They are laid in the heavenly Singer's breast
Who never sings but a star is born:
May we hear His song in the endless morn!
I give glory to God for our battles won
By wood or river, on bay or creek;
For Norna—who died; for my father, Conn:
For feasts, and the chase on the mountains bleak:
I bewail my sins, both unknown and known,
And of those I have injured forgiveness seek.
The men that were wicked to me and mine;—
(Not quenching a wrong, nor in war nor wine)
I forgive and absolve them all, save three:
May Christ in His mercy be kind to me!

The publications of the Ossianic Society have made us familiar with Fionn Mac Cumhal (the Fingal of McPherson), chief of the far-famed Irish militia, instituted in the third century to protect the kingdom from foreign invasion. Its organisation rendered it an army of extraordinary efficiency; but, existing as a separate power, it became in time as formidable to the native sovereigns as to foreigners. The terrible battle of Gavra was its ruin. In it Oscar, the son of Oisin (or Ossian), and consequently the grandson of Fionn, fell in single combat with the Irish king Carbry, and nearly his whole army perished with him, A.D. 284. To this day Fionn and Oisin are household names in those parts of Western Ireland in which the traditional Gaelic poetry is recited.

KING MALACHI.

A BARD SONG.

I

'Twas a holy time when the Kings, long foemen,
Fought, side by side, to uplift the serf;
Never triumph'd in old time Greek or Roman
As Brian and Malachi at Clontarf.

There was peace in Eire for long years after
Canute in England reign'd and Sweyn;
But Eire found rest, and the freeman's laughter
Rang out the knell of the vanquished Dane.

II

Praise to the King of eighty years
Who rode round the battle-field, cross in hand!
But the blessing of Eire and grateful tears
To the King who fought under Brian's command!
A crown in heaven for the King who brake,
To staunch old discords, his royal wand:
Who spurned his throne for his People's sake,
Who served a rival and saved the land!

SAINT PATRICK AND THE KNIGHT;

OR, THE INAUGURATION OF IRISH CHIVALRY.

I

‘Thou shalt not be a Priest,’ he said;
‘Christ hath for thee a lowlier task:
Be thou His soldier! Wear with dread
His Cross upon thy shield and casque!
Put on God's armour, faithful knight!
Mercy with justice, love with law;
Nor e'er except for truth and right
This sword, cross-hilted, dare to draw.’

II

He spake, and with his crosier pointed
Graved on the broad shield's brazen boss

(That hour baptised, confirmed, anointed
Stood Erin's chivalry) the Cross;
And there was heard a whisper low—
Saint Michael, was that whisper thine?
‘Thou Sword, keep pure thy virgin vow,
And trenchant shalt thou be as mine.’

THE BALLAD OF THE BIER THAT CONQUERED;

OR, O'DONNELL'S ANSWER.

A.D. 1257.

[_]

Maurice Fitz Gerald, Lord Justice, marched to the north-west, and a furious battle was fought between him and Godfrey O'Donnell, Prince of Tirconnell, at Creadran-Killa, north of Sligo, A.D. 1257. The two leaders met in single combat, and severely wounded each other. It was of the wound he then received that O'Donnell died, after triumphantly defeating his great rival in Ulster, O'Neill. The latter, hearing that O'Donnell was dying, demanded hostages from the Kinel Connell. The messengers who brought this insolent message fled in terror the moment they had delivered it;—and the answer to it was brought by O'Donnell on his bier. Maurice Fitz Gerald finally retired to the Franciscan monastery which he had founded at Youghal, and died peacefully in the habit of that Order.

Land which the Norman would make his own!
(Thus sang the Bard 'mid a host o'erthrown,
While their white cheeks some on the clench'd hand propp'd,
And from some the life-blood unheeded dropp'd)
There are men in thee that refuse to die,
Though they scorn to live, while a foe stands nigh!

I.

O'Donnell lay sick with a grievous wound:
The leech had left him; the priest had come;
The clan sat weeping upon the ground,
Their banners furl'd, and their minstrels dumb.

II.

Then spake O'Donnell, the King: ‘Although
My hour draws nigh, and my dolours grow;
And although my sins I have now confess'd,
And desire in the Land, my charge, to rest,
Yet leave this realm, nor will I nor can
While a stranger treads on her, child or man.

III.

I will languish no longer a sick King here:
My bed is grievous; build up my Bier.
The white robe a King wears over me throw;
Bear me forth to the field where he camps—your foe,
With the yellow torches and dirges low.
The heralds have brought his challenge and fled;
The answer they bore not I bear instead:
My People shall fight, my pain in sight,
And I shall sleep well when their wrong stands right.’

IV.

Then the clan rose up from the ground, and gave ear,
And they fell'd great oak-trees and built a Bier;
Its plumes from the eagle's wings were shed,
And the wine-black samite above it spread
Inwov'n with sad emblems and texts divine,
And the braided bud of Tirconnell's pine,

And all that is meet for the great and brave
When past are the measured years God gave,
And a voice cries ‘Come’ from the waiting grave.

V.

When the Bier was ready they laid him thereon;
And the army forth bore him with wail and moan:
With wail by the sea-lakes and rock-abysses;
With moan through the vapour-trail'd wildernesses;
And men sore wounded themselves drew nigh
And said, ‘We will go with our King and die;’
And women wept as the pomp pass'd by.
The yellow torches far off were seen;
No war-note peal'd through the gorges green;
But the black pines echo'd the mourners' keen.

VI.

What said the Invader, that pomp in sight?
‘They sue for the pity they shall not win.’
But the sick King sat on the Bier upright,
And said, ‘So well! I shall sleep to-night:—
Rest here my couch, and my peace begin.’

VII.

Then the war-cry sounded—‘Lamb-dearg Aboo!’
And the whole clan rushed to the battle plain:
They were thrice driven back, but they closed anew
That an end might come to their King's great pain.
'Twas a nation, not army, that onward rush'd,
'Twas a nation's blood from their wounds that gush'd:
Bare-bosom'd they fought, and with joy were slain;
Till evening their blood fell fast like rain;

But a shout swell'd up o'er the setting sun,
And O'Donnell died, for the field was won.

So they buried their King upon Aileach's shore;
And in peace he slept;—O'Donnell More.

THE DIRGE OF ATHUNREE

A.D. 1316.

I.

Athunree! Athunree!
Erin's crown, it fell on thee!
Ne'er till then in all its woe
Did her heart its hope forego.
Save a little child—but one—
The latest regal race is gone.
Roderick died again on thee,
Athunree!

II.

Athunree! Athunree!
A hundred years and forty-three
Winter-wing'd and black as night
O'er the land had track'd their flight:
In Clonmacnoise from earthy bed
Roderick raised once more his head:—
Fedlim floodlike rushed to thee,
Athunree!

III.

Athunree! Athunree!
The light that struggled sank on thee!

Ne'er since Cathall the red-handed
Such a host till then was banded.
Long-haired Kerne and Galloglass
Met the Norman face to face;
The saffron standard floated far
O'er the on-rolling wave of war;
Bards the onset sang on thee,
Athunree!

IV.

Athunree! Athunree!
The poison tree took root in thee!
What might naked breasts avail
'Gainst sharp spear and steel-ribbed mail?
Of our Princes twenty-nine
Bulwarks fair of Connor's line,
Of our clansmen thousands ten
Slept on thy red ridges. Then—
Then the night came down on thee,
Athunree!

V.

Athunree! Athunree!
Strangely shone that moon on thee!
Like the lamp of them that tread
Staggering o'er the heaps of dead,
Seeking that they fear to see.
O that widows' wailing sore!
On it rang to Oranmore;
Died, they say, among the piles
That make holy Aran's isles;—
It was Erin wept on thee,
Athunree!

VI.

Athunree! Athunree!
The sword of Erin brake on thee!
Thrice a hundred wounded men,
Slowly nursed in wood or glen,
When the tidings came of thee
Rushed in madness to the sea;
Hurled their swords into the waves,
Raving died in ocean caves:—
Would that they had died on thee,
Athunree!

VII.

Athunree! Athunree!
The heart of Erin burst on thee!
Since that hour some unseen hand
On her forehead stamps the brand:
Her children ate that hour the fruit
That slays manhood at the root;
Our warriors are not what they were;
Our maids no more are blithe and fair;
Truth and Honour died with thee,
Athunree!

VIII.

Athunree! Athunree!
Never harvest wave o'er thee!
Never sweetly-breathing kine
Pant o'er golden meads of thine!
Barren be thou as the tomb;
May the night-bird haunt thy gloom
And the wailer from the sea,
Athunree!

IX.

Athunree! Athunree!
All my heart is sore for thee;
It was Erin died on thee,
Athunree!

THE DIRGE OF EDWARD BRUCE.

A.D. 1318.

I

He is dead, dead, dead!
The man to Erin dear!
The King who gave our Isle a head—
His kingdom is his bier.
He rode into our war;
And we crown'd him chief and prince
For his race to Alba's shore
Sailed from Erin, ages since.
Woe, woe, woe!
Edward Bruce is cold to-day;
He that slew him lies as low,
Sword to sword and clay to clay.

II

King Robert came too late!
Long, long may Erin mourn!
Famine's rage and dreadful Fate
Forbade her Bannockburn!
As the galley touch'd the strand
Came the messenger of woe;

The King put back the herald's hand:
‘Peace,’ he said, ‘thy tale I know!
His face was in the cloud;
And his wraith was on the surge.’—
Maids of Alba, weave his shroud!
Maids of Erin, sing his dirge!

THE TRUE KING.

A BARD SONG.

A.D. 1399.

I

He came in the night on a false pretence;
As a friend he came; as a lord remains:
His coming we noted not; when, or whence;
We slept: we woke in chains.
Ere a year they had chased us to dens and caves;
Our streets and our churches lay drown'd in blood;
The race that had sold us their sons as slaves
In our Land as conquerors stood!

II

Who were they, those princes that gave away
What was theirs to keep, not theirs to give?
A king holds sway for a passing day;
The kingdoms for ever live!
The Tanist succeeds when the King is dust:
The King rules all; yet the King hath nought:
They were traitors not Kings who sold their trust;
They were traitors not Kings who bought!

III

Brave Art Mac Murrough!—Arise, 'tis morn!
For a true King the nation waited long,
He is strong as the horn of the unicorn,
This true King who rights our wrong!
He rules in the fight by an inward right;
From the heart of the nation her king is grown;
He rules by right; he is might of her might;
Her flesh, and bone of her bone!

THE BALLAD OF QUEEN MARGARET'S FEASTING.

A.D. 1451.

[_]

The Irish chronicler thus concludes: ‘God's blessing, the blessing of all the Saints, and of every one, blessing from Jerusalem to Inis Glaaire, be on her going to heaven; and blessed be he who will reade and heare this for blessing her Soul; and cursed be that sore in her breast that killed Margaret.’

I

Fair she stood—God's queenly creature!
Wondrous joy was in her face;
Of her ladies none in stature
Like to her, and none in grace.
On the church-roof stood they round her,
Cloth of gold was her attire;
They in jewell'd circle wound her;—
Beside her Ely's King, her sire.

II

Far and near the green fields glitter'd
Like to flowery meads in Spring,

Gay with companies loose-scatter'd
Ranged each in seemly ring
Under banners red or yellow:
There all day the feast they kept
From chill dawn and noontide mellow
Till the hill-shades eastward crept.

III

On a white steed at the gateway
Margaret's husband, Calwagh, sate:
Guest on guest, approaching, straightway
Welcomed he with love and state.
Each pass'd on with largess laden:
Chosen gifts of thought and work,
Now the red cloak of the maiden,
Now the minstrel's golden torque.

IV

On the wind the tapestries shifted;
From the blue hills rang the horn;
Slowly toward the sunset drifted
Choral song and shout breeze-borne.
Like a sea the crowds unresting
Murmur'd round the grey church-tower;
Many a prayer amid the feasting,
For Margaret's mother rose that hour!

V

On the church-roof kerne and noble
At her bright face look'd, half-dazed;
Nought was hers of shame or trouble;
On the crowds far off she gazed:
Once, on heaven her dark eyes bending,
Her hands in prayer she flung apart:

Unconsciously her arms extending
She bless'd her People in her heart.

VI

Thus a Gaelic queen and nation
At Imayn till set of sun
Kept with feast the Annunciation,
Fourteen hundred fifty-one.
Time it was of solace tender;—
'Twas a brave time, strong yet fair!
Blessing, O ye Angels, send her
From Salem's towers and Inisglaaire!

THE WEDDING OF THE CLANS.

A GIRL'S BABBLE.

I go to knit two clans together;
Our clan and this clan unseen of yore:
Our clan fears nought! but I go, O whither?
This day I go from my Mother's door.

Thou redbreast sing'st the old song over
Though many a time thou hast sung it before;
They never sent thee to some strange new lover:—
I sing a new song by my Mother's door.

I stepp'd from my little room down by the ladder,
The ladder that never so shook before;
I was sad last night: to-day I am sadder
Because I go from my Mother's door.

The last snow melts upon bush and bramble;
The gold bars shine on the forest's floor;

Shake not, thou leaf! it is I must tremble
Because I go from my Mother's door.

From a Spanish sailor a dagger I bought me;
I trail'd a rose-tree our grey bawn o'er;
The creed and my letters our old bard taught me;
My days were sweet by my Mother's door.

My little white goat that with raised feet huggest
The oak stock, thy horns in the ivies frore,
Could I wrestle like thee—how the wreaths thou tuggest!—
I never would move from my Mother's door.

O weep no longer, my nurse and Mother!
My foster-sister, weep not so sore!
You cannot come with me, Ir, my brother;
Alone I go from my Mother's door.

Farewell, my wolf-hound, that slew Mac Owing
As he caught me and far through the thickets bore:
My heifer, Alb, in the green vale lowing,
My cygnet's nest upon Lorna's shore!

He has killed ten chiefs, this chief that plights me;
His hand is like that of the giant Balor:
But I fear his kiss; and his beard affrights me,
And the great stone dragon above his door.

Had I daughters nine with me they should tarry;
They should sing old songs; they should dance at my door;
They should grind at the quern;—no need to marry!
O when will this marriage-day be o'er?

THE IRISH NORMAN;

OR, ‘LAMENT FOR THE BARON OF LOUGHMOE.’

I

Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?
Not the corded brethren hooded
With the earth-hued cloak and cowl:—
'Mid the black church mourner-crowded
While the night winds round it howl
Let them, in the chancel kneeling,
Lift the hymns to God appealing:
Let them scare the Powers of Evil,
Striking dumb the accusing devil:
Let them angel-fence the Soul
That flies forward to its goal:
Prayer can quicken: fire can purge:
Yet they shall not sing his dirge!

II

Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?
Not the ceremonial weepers
Blackening o'er the place of tombs:
Though their cry might wake the sleepers
In the dark that wait their dooms;
Though their dreadful ululation
Sounds the death-note of a nation;
Though the far-off listeners shiver
Wave-tossed seamen, weary reapers
Shiver like to funeral plumes,
While the long wail like a river
Rolls beyond the horizon's verge;
Yet they shall not sing his dirge!

III

Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?
Not the minstrels of his presence,
Harpers of his halls and towers:
Let them, 'mid the bowery pleasance,
Sing that flower among the flowers,
Female beauty:—swift its race is
As the smiles on infant faces!
O, ye conquering years and hours!
Children that together played
Love and wed, and then are laid
Grey-haired beneath the yew-tree bowers,
Passing gleams in glooms that merge;
Yet they shall not sing his dirge!

IV

Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?
Sing it castles that he wasted
Like those old oaks thunder-blasted,
Wasted with the sword or fire!
Sternness God with sweetness mateth;
Next to him that well createth
Is the just and brave Destroyer!
The man that sinned, the same must fall,
Though Peter by him stood and Paul!
They his clansmen, they his gleemen,
They that wear the garb of freemen
Wore the sackcloth, wore the serge:—
Let them sing the Baron's dirge.

V

Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?
Whoso fain would sing it faileth,

Triumph so o'er grief prevaileth!
Double-fountained was his blood,
A Gaelic spring, a Norman flood!
To his bosom truth he folded
With a youthful lover's zeal:
God's great Justice seemed he, moulded
In a statued shape of steel!
Men were liars; kerne and noble;
He consumed them like to stubble!
The orphan's shield, the traitor's scourge—
Sing, fierce winds, the Baron's dirge!

VI

Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?
O thou dread Almighty Will!
Man exulteth; woman plaineth;
But the Will Supreme ordaineth,
And the years its fate fulfil.
All our reason is unreason;
All our glory ends in woe:
Thou didst raise him for a season,
Thou once more hast laid him low!
But his strong life sought Thee ever;
Sought Thee like a mountain river
Lost at last in the sea surge—
No! we will not sing his dirge!

VII

Who shall sing the Baron's dirge?
'Twas no time of sobs or sighing:
Grave, yet glad, he lay a dying.
Heralds through the vales were sent
Bidding all men pray for grace

That he rightly might repent
Sins of his and all his race:
Well he worked: three days his spirit
Throve in prayer and waxed in merit.
The blessed lights aloft were raised:
On the Cross his dim eyes gazed
To the last breath's ebb and gurge—
No! for him we chant no dirge!

The name of an Irish air.

THE STATUTE OF KILKENNY.

[_]

The Statute of Kilkenny, passed A.D. 1362, is thus described by an English historian, Mr. Plowden:—‘It was enacted that intermarriages with the natives, or any connection with them as fosterers, or in the way of gossiprcd, should be punished as high treason; that the use of their name, language, apparel, or customs should be punished with the forfeiture of lands and tenements; that to submit to be governed by the Brehon Laws was treason; that the English should not make war upon the natives without the permission and authority of Government; that the English should not permit the Irish to graze upon their lands; that they should not admit them to any benefice or religious privilege, or even entertain their bards.’

Of old ye warr'd on men: to-day
On women and on babes ye war;
The noble's child his head must lay
Beneath the peasant's roof no more!

I saw in sleep the infant's hand
His foster-brother's fiercely grasp;
His warm arm, lithe as willow wand,
Twines me each day with closer clasp!

O infant smiler! grief-beguiler!
Between the oppressor and the oppress'd
O soft, unconscious reconciler,
Smile on! through thee the Land is bless'd.

Through thee the puissant love the poor;
His conqueror's hope the vanquish'd shares:
For thy sake by a lowly door
The clan made vassal stops and stares.

Our vales are healthy. On thy cheek
There dawns each day a livelier red:
Smile on! Before another week
Thy feet our earthen floor will tread!

Thy foster-brothers twain for thee
Would face the wolves on snowy fell:
Smile on! the ‘Irish Enemy’
Will fence their Norman nursling well.

The nursling as the child is dear;
Thy Mother loves not like thy nurse!
That babbling Mandate steps not near
Thy cot but o'er her bleeding corse!

THE DAYS OF OUTLAWRY.

I

A cry comes up from wood and wold,
A wail from fen and marish,
‘Grant us our Laws, and take our gold;
Like beasts dog-chased we perish.’—
The hunters of their kind reply,
‘Our sports we scorn to barter;
We rule! the Irish Enemy
Partakes not England's charter.’

II

A cry comes up for ever new
A wail of hopeless anguish,
‘Your Laws, your Laws!—our Laws ye slew;
In living death we languish.’—
‘Not so! We keep our hunting-ground;
We chase the flying quarry.
Hark, hark, that sound! the horn and hound!
Away! we may not tarry!’

III

Sad isle, thy laws are Norman lords
That, dower'd by Henry's bounty,
On cities sup 'mid famish'd hordes,
And dine on half a county!
A laughing giant, Outlawry,
Strides drunk o'er hill and heather;
Justice to him is as a fly
'Twixt mail'd hands clash'd together.

IV

O memory, memory, leave the graves
Knee-deep in grass and darnel!
Wash from a kingdom, winds and waves,
The odour of the charnel!
Be dumb, red graves in valleys deep,
Black towers on plains blood-sloken:—
Dark fields, your thrilling secrets keep,
Nor speak till God hath spoken!

In the reign of Edward I. those Irish who lay contiguous to the county lands, finding themselves in a position of utter outlawry, the ancient Brehon Law of Ireland not being recognised by England, and English law not being extended to them, applied to the king for the protection of the latter. The incident is thus narrated by Plowden in his ‘History of Ireland’:— ‘They consequently offered, through Ufford, the chief governor, 8,000 marks to the king, provided he would grant the free enjoyment of the laws of England to the whole body of Irish natives indiscriminately.’ Edward was disposed to accept the offer, but in the words of Plowden:—‘These politic and benevolent intentions of Edward were thwarted by his servants, who, to forward their own rapacious views of extortion and oppression, prevented a convention of the king's barons and other subjects in Ireland. . . The cry of oppression was not silenced; the application of the Irish was renewed, and the king repeatedly solicited to accept them as free and faithful subjects.’

THE THREE CHOIRS;

OR, THE CONSECRATION OF ST. PATRICK.

A BARD SONG.

While holy hands on Patrick laid
The great Priest consecrated,
Three mystic choirs—so sang the bards—
Their anthems matched and mated;

The first, that Roman choir which chants
O'er tombs of Paul and Peter;
The next a Seraph band, with note
By distance rendered sweeter.

The third rang out from Fochlut's wood
Where once their ululation
Lost Erin's babes to Patrick raised—
‘Redeem a wildered nation!’

Ring out once more, from Erin's shore!
From Rome, from Heaven, for ever
Roll on thou triple Psalm, that God
May answer and deliver!

THE BALLAD OF TURGESIUS THE DANE;

OR, THE GIRL DELIVERER.

A BARD SONG.

The people sat amid the dust and wept:
‘In darker days than these God burst the chain,’
Thus sang the harper as the chords he swept,
‘Hear of the Girl Deliverer and the Dane.’

PART I.

Twin ivy wreaths her forehead wound,
A green wreath and a yellow:
Her hair a gleaming dusk in ground
With ends of sunshine mellow.

Fair rose her head the tall neck o'er;
That neck in snows was bedded:
Some crown, they swore, unseen she bore—
That queenly head it steadied.

Her sable vest in front was laced
With laces red as coral;
Her golden zone in gems was traced
With leafy type and moral.

As treading hearts her small feet went
In love-suspended fleetness:
And hearts thus trodden forth had sent
An organ-sob of sweetness.

Upon the dais when she stept
Meath's peopled hall rang loudly;
Their hundred harps the minstrels swept:
Her sire looked round him proudly.

The Dane beside him, darkening, sate,
At once his guest and victor;
Green Erin's scourge—the true King's fate—
The sceptred serf's protector.

‘Sir King! our worship grows but small!
Here Gaels alone find honour:
A white girl cannot cross your hall
But all men gaze upon her!

‘My speech is short: yon stands my fort!
Ere three nights thither send her
With twenty maidens of her court,
Your fairest, to attend her.’

PART II.

The Dane strides o'er his stony floor
A strong, fierce man, yet hoary:
The low sun fires the purple moor
With mingled gloom and glory.

The tyrant stops; he stares thereon:
Sun-touched, his armour flashes:
His rough grey hair a glow hath won
Like embers seen through ashes.

His mail'd hand grasps his tangled beard:
He laughs that red sun watching,
Till the roofs laugh back like a forest weird
The laughter of Wood-gods catching.

‘My Sea-Kings! mark yon furnace-sheen!
The Fire-god is not thrifty!
No flame like that these eyes have seen
For winters five-and-fifty.

‘My sire lay dead: the ship sailed North,
The pyre and the corse on bearing:
Six miles it sailed; the flames sprang forth
Like sea-vext Hecla glaring!

‘We'll pledge him to-night in the blood-red wine:
'Tis wrought, the task he set me!
From coast to coast this Isle is mine:
Not soon will her sons forget me!

‘I have burned their shrines and their cities sacked;
Their Fair Ones our castles cumber;
We were shamed to-night if the bevy lacked
The fairest from their number.

‘Young wives for us all; too many by half!
Strange mates—the hind with the dragon!’
He laughed as when the reveller's laugh
Rings back from the half-drained flagon.

PART III.

The girl hath prayed at her Mother's grave,
And kissed that grave, and risen:
She hath swathed a knife in a silken glaive:
She is calm, but her great eyes glisten.

Between silk vest and spotless breast
A dagger she hath hidden;
With lips compressed gone forth, a guest
Unhonoured—not unbidden.

Through moonshine wan on moves she, on:
But who are those, the others?
They are garbed like maids, but maids are none:
They are lovers of maids, and brothers.

The gates lie wide: they enter in:
Loud roars the riot and wassail:
They hear at times 'mid the conquerors' din
The harp of the Gaelic vassal.

The Dane has laid on her head his hand,
The love in his eye is cruel:
Out leap the swords of that well-masked band:
Two nations have met in duel!

'Twas God their sentence on high that wrote!
'Tis a righteous doom—that slaughter!
His Sea-Kings lie drowned in the castle moat,
And the Tyrant in Annin water.

From mountain to mountain the tidings flashed:
It pealed from turret to turret:
Like a sunlit storm o'er the plains it dashed:
It hung o'er the vales like a spirit.

'Twas a maiden's honour that crowned the right:
'Twas a vestal claim, scarce noted
By the power which trampled it out of sight,
That rose on the wrong, and smote it!

The harper ceased: aloud the young men cried,
‘That maid is Erin! Live, O maid, for ever!’
‘Not Erin but her Faith,’ the old priests replied:
‘Her Faith—that only—shall the Land deliver!’

EPILOGUE.

At my casement I sat by night, while the wind remote in dark valleys
Voluminous gather'd and grew, and waxing swell'd to a gale:
Now mourning. like seas heart-grieved, now sobbing in petulant sallies:
Far off, 'twas a People's moan; hard by, but a widow's wail.

To God there is fragment none: nothing single; no isolation:
The ages to Him are one: round Him the Woe, and the Wrong
Roll like a spiritual star, and the cry of the desolate Nation:
The Souls that are under the Altar respond in music ‘How long?’

By the casement I sat alone till sign after sign had descended:
The Hyads rejoin'd their sea, and the Pleiads by fate were down borne:
And then with that distant dirge a tenderer anthem was blended,
And, glad to behold her young, the bird gave thanks to the morn.

University of Virginia Library

I. PART I.

Prologue.

THE THREE WOES.

THE WARNINGS.

A.D. 1170.

I

II

III

A BARD SONG.

I

II

THE DIRGE OF THE INVADERS;

OR, THE HOUSE NORMAN.

I

II

III

IV

V

PECCATUM PECCAVIT.

A BARD SONG.

I

II

THE MALISON.

I

II

III

THE LEGENDS.

A BARD SONG.

I

II

THE LEGENDS.

A BARD SONG.

I

II

THE FAITHFUL NORMAN.

I

II

SONG.

I

II

III

THE LEGENDS.

A BARD SONG.

I

II

THE BARD ETHELL.

THIRTEENTH CENTURY.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

KING MALACHI.

A BARD SONG.

I

II

SAINT PATRICK AND THE KNIGHT;

OR, THE INAUGURATION OF IRISH CHIVALRY.

I

II

THE BALLAD OF THE BIER THAT CONQUERED;

OR, O'DONNELL'S ANSWER.

A.D. 1257.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.