University of Virginia Library

I.

In strength and majesty profuse,
On yonder mountain-rock, of yore
The turrets stood of proud Dunluce,
And darken'd far the craggy shore.
It rose beneath ambitious hands,
As if to mock the siege of Time;
Though now the castle-relic stands
A faded monument of crime.
Its masters were in song renown'd;
And Erin yet will love the sound,
That wakes her dormant Harp of Fame
In memory of McQuillin's name;
Although the note, begun in gladness,
Is fain to falter into sadness:
Although her Heroes' setting glory
Was quench'd in obscuration gory.

II.

Through many an age, by lineal right,
Its blessing and its boast,
McQuillins were the fostering light
Of Antrim's feudal coast.
And none of all the lengthen'd line,
In good or gallant heart surpast
The Chieftain, who, with sway benign,
Was Lord of yonder castle last.
Without the walls his rich domain
Through many a league of beauty ran;
Around his gates, a goodly train,
Were scatter'd his devoted clan:
And at his board, (whose group reveals
Of all past joys some touching trace,)
He felt the pride a father feels,
Amid his own superior race.
But one, Affection's earliest gage,
Young Owen, flower of all his age,
In whom each germ of promise swell'd,
The father's favour'd care was held.

III.

A sail is on the roaring sea;
McDonnel comes, a chief of fame,
Alliance strict and friendship free,
Knit with the Irish Chief, to claim.
Was Irish Chieftain ever slow
To grasp at Friendship's proffer'd hand?
Did ever Irish Chieftain throw
The Stranger forth that sought his land?
With welcome prompt, and heart as warm
As heart of Inisfail can be;
The Hero hail'd the Stranger's form,
That struck his eye right gallantly:
For noble was the Scotchman's air;
His aspect had a bearing brave;
A cloud indeed of sternness there,
But such as warrior well might have.
And had that brow been shaded o'er
With cloud yet sterner than it bore,
Its gloom had serv'd but to enhance
The mild appeal of Beauty's glance,
That slowly roll'd its modest pride,
From graceful maiden at his side;
Who, as the Stranger nam'd his child,
With pleas'd affection blush'd and smil'd.

IV.

Sweet were the dark-fring'd eyes of blue
That wafted Marion's soul,
And beautiful the flushing hue
That o'er her features stole.
Her eye beneath its shadowy lid
The genius of her beauty hid,
Which archly couch'd, as if afraid,
Within its sapphire ambuscade;
And shed, in unsuspected seeming,
A timid and reluctant gleaming;
Then forth precipitate would fly,
With graceful wildness dashing by,
And on the heart that dream'd of ease
With sudden soft transition seize;
That heart, a captive unprepar'd,
In Beauty's silken net ensnar'd;
Which coldly, safely, thought to brook
The spirit of her gentle look.

V.

The summer months rejoicing sped;
Of blithesome days a spangled cluster;
For Friendship's light around them shed
Its heaven-attemper'd lustre.
And oft the Scot would ply his host
With question of that wond'rous coast;
Where every view at every glance,
Seem'd Nature brighten'd in Romance.
To all the Irish Chief replied;
And, in the zeal of honest pride,
Would shew him, not the scenes alone
To every native vassal known,
But, e'en from all reserve releas'd,
The mazy haunts and subtle bowers,
Conceal'd along the sylvan East,
Or buried 'neath Dunluce's towers.
For then the wooded vales and steeps
Could shade and feed the hind and stag—
Though now the lonely sea-breeze sweeps
O'er arid moor and naked crag.

VI.

A cave, whose windings deep and black
Re-echoed hoarse the billow's roar,
Beneath Dunluce pursued its track,
Which strangers vainly might explore.
'Twas here, in time of war and leaguer,
Their castle's subterraneous haven,
When deem'd the foe, for triumph eager,
That nought could feed them but the raven;
At dead of night, the laden boat,
Their sure resource, was wont to float;
And while the disappointed foe
By turns with rage and hope would glow;
Dunluce from day to day would foil
Their slow blockade or stormy broil,
And mock the vain impatient toil:
Proud as the rock on which it stood,
That spurneth back the foaming flood.
Even this, in friendly trust divulg'd,
The Scotchman's scrutiny indulg'd;
And while with interest mute he listen'd,
His eyes with raptur'd wildness glisten'd.
The Chief observ'd that visage darkling,
For once, with Joy's vibration sparkling:
With Gratitude's electric start,
He snatch'd him to his fervent heart;
And blest him for the kindly zeal
That thus exulted in his weal.

VII.

But why does Owen's ardour fail,
That proud and wild, but noble boy?
And why is Owen's cheek so pale,
Amid the general sense of joy?
Is it the spark of sentient fire,
Within his youthful bosom stealing?
That kindles there a soft desire,
That nurtures there a tender feeling?
O no: yet Marion's witching grace
His heart's soft sigh might well have snatch'd;
Not even Erin's loveliest face
That Caledonian beauty match'd.
But Owen shuns the maiden's sight,
And wanders through the darksome woods,
Or listens, till the noon of night,
To screeching winds and tumbling floods.
At times, indeed, he'll near her stay,
And fix his dark wild eye on her's;
And, now and then, a fit-ful ray
Darts through an opening cloud of tears.
Some secret trouble haunts his brain,
But 'tis not like to Passion's pain;
Or if it be a lover's anguish,
It seems without return to languish.
She knows it not, or heeds it not,
Yet Owen too might wake her sigh;
For many a dame, of nobler lot,
Would bless the smile of Owen's eye.
And there is something in her air,
And something in her cheek's expression,
That shews the shade of Sorrow there,
Some tender Sorrow's faint confession.

VIII.

There was a solitary spot,
Beyond the Castle's eastern wing,
Where young Romance might feed the thought,
Too wild to be like earthly thing.
Of yore it was a hermit's cave:
Hard by his reverend ashes lay;
And thither many a pilgrim wave
Would rove to kiss his sacred clay.
There Owen often sat to hear
The sounds that most his soul could please;
Such sounds as common bosoms fear;
The shrieks of winds, and woods, and seas;
With whose wild harmony sublime,
He'd make his Harp as wildly chime.
It chanc'd—shone, wheel'd by Time through air,
The starry tissu'd wain of night;
And from the Moon's effulgent car
Were drop'd inspiring rays of light:
'Twas one of those delicious hours,
When each bright spirit rides the gale,
And o'er the night such radiance showers,
'Tis only a transparent veil.
The hour when pensive Beauty's roll
Their slow soft looks the moon to meet,
Whose beams delight the mournful soul,
And make the taste of Sorrow sweet.
It chanc'd, as Owen sought the place,
Already there some creature stir'd:
Amaz'd, the wanderer check'd his pace;
And soon a harp and voice he heard!

SONG.

IX.

The air was sad, but wond'rous sweet;
'Twas chasten'd Melancholy's choice;
'Twas Beauty's plaint in Love's retreat;
'Twas Owen's harp, and Marion's voice!
And unobserv'd the Youth could view,
Athwart the half-clos'd lattice favouring,
The tear that dim'd her eye of blue,
Like star in realms of azure wavering;
“And is it thus?” the Youth exclaim'd,
With Wonder's mad'ning rapture fir'd:
“And can it be? was Owen nam'd
In strains that heaven alone inspir'd?”
He onward flew—when Terror's shriek
The self-same moment heard and hush'd;
O how was Beauty's burning cheek
With Shame's divine confusion flush'd!
The breathless pause—the mute surprise;
The blush of exquisite distress;
The look that all in vain denies
That secret song of tenderness,
And like a troubled summer day,
A moment shoots the flash of anger,
And then again dissolves away
To more delightful languor;
Sweet Marion! 'twas bliss to see
The charm of thy perplexity!
And as the Boy embarrass'd knelt,
Nor knew to name the throb he felt;
Nor ventur'd to unload his breast
Of feelings it had long supprest;
Nor dar'd his newborn hope advance
Beyond the pleading of a glance;
O lovely Marion! didst thou long
Refuse to own that secret song?

X.

When kindred hearts together meet,
And mingle in Affection's union,
Heaven lends its mystic influence sweet
To bless that chaste communion:
And when through Nature's fair domain
Together stray enchanted lovers,
For them each charm of Nature's reign
A sweeter spell discovers.
The mild moonshine for them is milder;
The murmurings of the wave are wilder;
The sober mist the mountain bears
A livelier tinge of purple wears;
Each chequer'd flower the vale defends,
More harmonizing colours blends;
For them can every morning rise,
Fair as the first in Paradise;
And every rosied evening gem
Reflects a ray of bliss to them.

XI.

Far o'er the cliffs of Antrim's shore
Together would they wander;
And on the bleaching billows' roar
In pleasant silence ponder;
But oft as Owen's ear inclin'd
To catch the gloomy voice of waters,
He'd turn, and thus, with gloomier mind,
Address the star of Scotia's daughters:
“O Marion! soon that bounding tide
From grey Dunluce shall waft thee far;
Thy bark's gay pennon soon shall ride
The breezes of thy native air,
And ne'er again shall gaily stream
O'er Antrim's happy shore;
And I shall weep the brilliant dream,
That must return no more:
And I shall ramble here alone,
And mourn thee, beauteous Vision! flown:
And I shall say: she hither came,
A torch of heaven—a lightening ray;
To dart into my soul its flame,
And leave it then to waste away!”

XII.

Of all the griefs that pain the heart,
Where Love has built his fervid cell,
The sternest struggle is—to part;
The hardest word is—fare thee well!
It came, that morning hour of care;
The sail was set—the anchor weigh'd;
And far away the breezes bare
The thoughtful Sire and weeping Maid.
And months roll'd on; and Owen's breast,
A wilderness of sadness,
One lingering bud of hope carest;
One orphan child of gladness.
McDonnel's parting promise said,
That e'er the winter tempest tost,
His prow again should bear a-head
For Antrim's turret-mantled coast.
That friendly pledge to Owen's ear
As Marion's lay of love was sweet,
Yet could he not subdue the fear,
That said they never more should meet.
'Twere vain to tell how many a time,
The cloud-embracing heights he'd climb,
Whose hidden brows the eye of man
Till then had never thought to scan;
Where oft the eagle by him rushing,
Her powerful eye indignant flushing,
Would fill the air with angry screeching;
Far, wild, along those summits reaching;
Complaining that a human tread
Should dare approach her rocking bed;
Should dare arouse her startled pinion,
Within her own sublime dominion!
And down upon the drear expanse,
Where thousand shapes of falsehood dance,
As o'er the main his eye protruded,
How oft, alas! was he deluded!
Each shade approaching, dim and vapoury,
That curl'd its unsubstantial drapery;
Nay, every farthest whitening billow,
That gave the sea-fowl's breast a pillow,
Would seem a sail in cold derision,
To mock his straining aching vision:
Yet, “When will she return?” he'd cry;
And as he ask'd his heart of sorrow,
That sanguine heart would still reply,
“To-morrow, and to-morrow!”