But though his cheek was white with rage, He seemed to smile, and cried—"O Sage! O honey-spoken bard of truth! MacDonnell is a valiant youth. We long have been the Saxon's prey— Why not the Scot as well as they? He's of as good a robber line As any a Burke or Geraldine.

"From Insi Gall,[86] so speaketh fame, From Insi Gall his people came; From Insi Gall, where storm winds roar Beyond the gray Albin's icy shore. His grandsire and his grandsire's son, Full soon fat herds and pastures won; But, by Columba! were we men, We'd send the whole brood back again!

"Oh! had we iron hands to dare, As we have waxen hearts to bear, Oh! had we manly blood to shed, Or even to tinge our cheeks with red, No bard could say as you have said, One of the race of Somerled— A base intruder from the Isles— Basks in our island's sunniest smiles!

"But, not to mar our feast to-night With what to-morrow's sword may right, O Bard of many songs! again Awake thy sweet harp's silvery strain. If beauty decks with peerless charm MacDonnell's wife in fair Glenarm, Say does there bound in Antrim's meads A steed to match O'Donnell's steeds?"

Submissive doth the bard incline His reverend head, and cries, "O Con, Thou heir of Conal Golban's line, I've sang the fair wife of MacJohn; You'll frown again as late you frowned, But truth will out when lips are freed; There's not a steed on Irish ground To stand beside MacDonnell's steed!

"Thy horses o'er Eargals' plains, Like meteors stars their red eyes gleam; With silver hoofs and broidered reins, They mount the hill and swim the stream; But like the wind through Barnesmore, Or white-maned wave through Carrig-Rede,[87] Or like a sea-bird to the shore, Thus swiftly sweeps MacDonnell's steed!

"A thousand graceful steeds had Fin, Within lost Almhaim's fairy hall, A thousand steeds as sleek of skin As ever graced a chieftain's stall. With gilded bridles oft they flew, Young eagles in their lightning speed, Strong as the cataract of Hugh,[88] So swift and strong MacDonnell's steed!"

Without the hearty word of praise, Without the kindly smiling gaze, Without the friendly hand to greet, The daring bard resumes his seat. Even in the hospitable face Of Con, the anger you could trace. But generous Con his wrath suppressed, For Owen was Clan Dalaigh's guest.

"Now, by Columba!" Con exclaimed, "Methinks this Scot should be ashamed To snatch at once, in sateless greed, The fairest maid and finest steed; My realm is dwindled in mine eyes, I know not what to praise or prize, And even my noble dog, O Bard, Now seems unworthy my regard!"

"When comes the raven of the sea To nestle on an alien strand, Oh! ever, ever will he be The master of the subject land. The fairest dame, he holdeth her— For him the noblest steed doth bound—; Your dog is but a household cur, Compared to John MacDonnell's hound!

"As fly the shadows o'er the grass, He flies with step as light and sure, He hunts the wolf through Trosstan pass, And starts the deer by Lisanoure! The music of the Sabbath bells, O Con, has not a sweeter sound Than when along the valley swells The cry of John MacDonnell's hound.

"His stature tall, his body long, His back like night, his breast like snow, His fore-leg pillar-like and strong, His hind-leg like a bended bow; Rough, curling hair, head long and thin, His ear a leaf so small and round: Not Bran, the favourite hound of Fin, Could rival John MacDonnell's hound.

"O Con! thy bard will sing no more, There is a fearful time at hand; The Scot is on the northern shore, The Saxon in the eastern land; The hour comes on with quicker flight, When all who live on Irish ground Must render to the stranger's might Both maid and wife, and steed and hound!"

The trembling bard again retires, But now he lights a thousand fires; The pent-up flame bursts out at length, In all its burning, tameless strength. You'd think each clansman's foe was by, So sternly flashed each angry eye; You'd think 'twas in the battle's clang O'Donnell's thundering accents rang!

"No! by my sainted kinsman,[89] no! This foul disgrace must not be so; No, by the Shrines of Hy, I've sworn, This foulest wrong must not be borne. A better steed!—a fairer wife! Was ever truer cause of strife? A swifter hound!—a better steed! Columba! these are cause indeed!"

Again, like spray from mountain rill, Up started Con: "By Collum Kille, And by the blessed light of day, This matter brooketh no delay. The moon is down, the morn is up, Come, kinsmen, drain a parting cup, And swear to hold our next carouse, With John MacJohn MacDonnell's spouse!

"We've heard the song the bard has sung, And as a healing herb among Most poisonous weeds may oft be found, So of this woman, steed, and hound; The song has burned into our hearts, And yet a lesson it imparts, Had we but sense to read aright The galling words we heard to-night.

"What lesson does the good hound teach? Oh, to be faithful each to each! What lesson gives the noble steed? Oh! to be swift in thought and deed! What lesson gives the peerless wife? Oh! there is victory after strife; Sweet is the triumph, rich the spoil, Pleasant the slumber after toil!"

They drain the cup, they leave the hall, They seek the armoury and stall, The shield re-echoing to the spear Proclaims the foray far and near; And soon around the castles gate Full sixty steeds impatient wait, And every steed a knight upon, The strong, small-powerful force of Con!

Their lances in the red dawn flash, As down by Easky's side they dash; Their quilted jackets shine the more, From gilded leather broidered o'er; With silver spurs, and silken rein, And costly riding-shoes from Spain; Ah! much thou hast to fear, MacJohn, The strong, small-powerful force of Con!

As borne upon autumnal gales, Wild whirring gannets pierce the sails Of barks that sweep by Arran's shore,[90] Thus swept the train through Barnesmore. Through many a varied scene they ran, By Castle Fin, and fair Strabane, By many a hill, and many a clan, Across the Foyle and o'er the Bann:—

Then stopping in their eagle flight, They waited for the coming night, And then, as Antrim's rivers rush Straight from their founts with sudden gush, Nor turn their strong, brief streams aside, Until the sea receives their tide; Thus rushed upon the doomed MacJohn The swift, small-powerful force of Con.

They took the castle by surprise, No star was in the angry skies, The moon lay dead within her shroud Of thickly-folded ashen cloud; They found the steed within his stall, The hound within the oaken hall, The peerless wife of thousand charms, Within her slumbering husband's arms:

The bard had pictured to the life The beauty of MacDonnell's wife; Not Evir[91] could with her compare For snowy hand and shining hair; The glorious banner morn unfurls Were dark beside her golden curls; And yet the blackness of her eye Was darker than the moonless sky!

If lovers listen to my lay, Description is but thrown away; If lovers read this antique tale, What need I speak of red or pale? The fairest form and brightest eye Are simply those for which they sigh; The truest picture is but faint To what a lover's heart can paint.

Well, she was fair, and Con was bold, But in the strange, wild days of old; To one rough hand was oft decreed The noblest and the blackest deed. 'Twas pride that spurred O'Donnell on, But still a generous heart had Con; He wished to show that he was strong, And not to do a bootless wrong.

But now there's neither thought nor time For generous act or bootless crime; For other cares the thoughts demand Of the small-powerful victor band. They tramp along the old oak floors, They burst the strong-bound chamber doors; In all the pride of lawless power, Some seek the vault, and some the tower.

And some from out the postern pass, And find upon the dew-wet grass Full many a head of dappled deer, And many a full-ey'd brown-back'd steer, And heifers of the fragrant skins, The pride of Antrim's grassy glynns, Which with their spears they drive along, A numerous, startled, bellowing throng.

They leave the castle stripped and bare, Each has his labour, each his share; For some have cups, and some have plate, And some have scarlet cloaks of state, And some have wine, and some have ale, And some have coats of iron mail, And some have helms, and some have spears, And all have lowing cows and steers!

Away! away! the morning breaks O'er Antrim's hundred hills and lakes; Away! away! the dawn begins To gild gray Antrim's deepest glynns; The rosy steeds of morning stop, As if to gaze on Collin top; Ere they have left it bare and gray, O'Donnell must be far away!

The chieftain on a raven steed, Himself the peerless dame doth lead, Now like a pallid, icy corse, And lifts her on her husband's horse; His left hand holds his captive's rein, His right is on the black steed's mane, And from the bridle to the ground Hangs the long leash that binds the hound.

And thus before his victor clan, Rides Con O'Donnell in the van; Upon his left the drooping dame, Upon his right, in wrath and shame, With one hand free and one hand tied, And eyes firm fixed upon his bride, Vowing dread vengeance yet on Con, Rides scowling, silent, stern MacJohn.

They move with steps as swift as still, 'Twixt Collin mount and Slemish hill, They glide along the misty plain, And ford the sullen muttering Maine; Some drive the cattle o'er the hills, And some along the dried-up rills; But still a strong force doth surround The chiefs, the dame, the steed, and hound.

Thus ere the bright-faced day arose, The Bann lay broad between the foes. But how to paint the inward scorn, The self-reproach of those that morn, Who waking found their chieftain gone, The cattle swept from field and bawn, The chieftain's castle stormed and drained, And, worse than all, their honour stained!

But when the women heard that Anne, The queen, the glory of the clan Was carried off by midnight foes, Heavens! such despairing screams arose, Such shrieks of agony and fright, As only can be heard at night, When Clough-i-Stookan's mystic rock The wail of drowning men doth mock.[92]

But thirty steeds are in the town, And some are like the ripe heath, brown, Some like the alder-berries, black, Some like the vessel's foamy track; But be they black, or brown, or white, They are as swift as fawns in flight, No quicker speed the sea gull hath When sailing through the Gray Man's Path.[93]

Soon are they saddled, soon they stand, Ready to own the rider's hand, Ready to dash with loosened rein Up the steep hill, and o'er the plain; Ready, without the prick of spurs, To strike the gold cups from the furze: And now they start with winged pace, God speed them in their noble chase!

By this time, on Ben Bradagh's height, Brave Con had rested in his flight, Beneath him, in the horizon's blue, Lay his own valleys of Tirhugh. It may have been the thought of home, While resting on that mossy dome, It may have been his native trees That woke his mind to thoughts like these.

"The race is o'er, the spoil is won, And yet what boots it all I've done? What boots it to have snatched away This steed, and hound, and cattle-prey? What boots it, with an iron hand To tear a chieftain from his land, And dim that sweetest light that lies In a fond wife's adoring eyes?

"If thus I madly teach my clan, What can I hope from beast or man? Fidelity a crime is found, Or else why chain this faithful hound? Obedience, too, a crime must be, Or else this steed were roaming free; And woman's love the worst of sins, Or Anne were queen of Antrim's Glynnes!

"If, when I reach my home to-night, I see the yellow moonbeam's light Gleam through the broken gate and wall Of my strong fort of Donegal; If I behold my kinsmen slain, My barns devoid of golden grain, How can I curse the pirate crew For doing what this hour I do?

"Well, in Columba's blessed name, This day shall be a day of fame,— A day when Con in victory's hour Gave up the untasted sweets of power; Gave up the fairest dame on earth, The noblest steed that e'er wore girth, The noblest hound of Irish breed, And all to do a generous deed."

He turned and loosed MacDonnell's hand, And led him where his steed doth stand; He placed the bride of peerless charms Within his longing, outstretched arms; He freed the hound from chain and band, Which, leaping, licked his master's hand; And thus, while wonder held the crowd, The generous chieftain spoke aloud:—

"MacJohn, I heard in wrathful hour That thou in Antrim's glynnes possessed The fairest pearl, the sweetest flower That ever bloomed on Erin's breast. I burned to think such prize should fall To any Scotch or Saxon man, But find that Nature makes us all The children of one world-spread clan.

"Within thy arms thou now dost hold A treasure of more worth and cost Than all the thrones and crowns of gold That valour ever won or lost; Thine is that outward perfect form, Thine, too, the subtler inner life, The love that doth that bright shape warm: Take back, MacJohn, thy peerless wife!"

"They praised thy steed. With wrath and grief I felt my heart within me bleed, That any but an Irish chief Should press the back of such a steed; I might to yonder smiling land The noble beast reluctant lead; But, no!—he'd miss thy guiding hand— Take back, MacJohn, thy noble steed.

"The praises of thy matchless hound, Burned in my breast like acrid wine; I swore no chief on Irish ground Should own a nobler hound than mine; 'Twas rashly sworn, and must not be, He'd pine to hear the well-known sound, With which thou call'st him to thy knee, Take back, MacJohn, thy matchless hound.

"MacJohn, I stretch to yours and you This hand beneath God's blessed sun, And for the wrong that I might do Forgive the wrong that I have done; To-morrow all that we have ta'en Shall doubly, trebly be restored: The cattle to the grassy plain, The goblets to the oaken board.

"My people from our richest meads Shall drive the best our broad lands hold For every steed a hundred steeds, For every steer a hundred-fold; For every scarlet cloak of state A hundred cloaks all stiff with gold; And may we be with hearts elate Still older friends as we grow old.

"Thou'st bravely won an Irish bride— An Irish bride of grace and worth— Oh! let the Irish nature glide Into thy heart from this hour forth; An Irish home thy sword has won, A new-found mother blessed the strife; Oh! be that mother's fondest son, And love the land that gives you life!

"Betwixt the Isles and Antrim's coast, The Scotch and Irish waters blend; But who shall tell, with idle boast, Where one begins and one doth end? Ah! when shall that glad moment gleam, When all our hearts such spell shall feel? And blend in one broad Irish stream, On Irish ground for Ireland's weal?

"Love the dear land in which you live, Live in the land you ought to love; Take root, and let your branches give Fruits to the soil they wave above; No matter what your foreign name, No matter what your sires have done, No matter whence or when you came, The land shall claim you as a son!"

As in the azure fields on high, When Spring lights up the April sky, The thick battalioned dusky clouds Fly o'er the plain like routed crowds Before the sun's resistless might! Where all was dark, now all is bright; The very clouds have turned to light, And with the conquering beams unite!

Thus o'er the face of John MacJohn A thousand varying shades have gone; Jealousy, anger, rage, disdain, Sweep o'er his brow—a dusky train; But nature, like the beam of spring, Chaseth the crowd on sunny wing; Joy warms his heart, hope lights his eye, And the dark passions routed fly!

The hands are clasped—the hound is freed, Gone is MacJohn with wife and steed, He meets his spearsmen some few miles, And turns their scowling frowns to smiles: At morn the crowded march begins Of steeds and cattle for the glynnes; Well for poor Erin's wrongs and griefs, If thus would join her severed chiefs!

77. A beautiful inlet, about six miles west of Donegal.

78. Lough Eask is about two miles from Donegal. Inglis describes it as being as pretty a lake, on a small scale, as can well be imagined.

79. The sands of Rosapenna are described as being composed of "hills and dales, and undulating swells, smooth, solitary, and desolate, reflecting the sun from their polished surface," &c.

80. "Clan Dalaigh" is a name frequently given by Irish writers to the Clan O'Donnell.

81. The "Fairy Gun" is an orifice in a cliff near Bundoran (four miles S.W. of Ballyshannon), into which the sea rushes with a noise like that of artillery, and from which mist, and a chanting sound, issue in stormy weather.

82. The waterfall at Ballyshannon.

83. The O'Donnells are descended from Conal Golban, son of Niall of the Nine Hostages.

84. Cushendall is very prettily situated on the eastern coast of the county Antrim. This, with all the territory known as the "Glynnes" (so called from the intersection of its surface by many rocky dells), from Glenarm to Ballycastle, was at this time in the possession of the MacDonnells, a clan of Scotch descent. The principal castle of the MacDonnells was at Glenarm.

85. The Rock of Doune, in Kilmacrenan, where the O'Donnells were inaugurated.

86. The Hebrides.

87. Carrick-a-rede (Carraig-a-Ramhad)—the Rock in the Road lies off the coast, between Ballycastle and Portrush; a chasm sixty feet in breadth, and very deep, separates it from the coast.

88. The waterfall of Assaroe, at Ballyshannon.

89. St. Columba, who was an O'Donnell.

90. "This bird (the Gannet) flys through the ship's sails, piercing them with his beak."—O'Flaherty's "H-Iar Connaught," p. 12, published by the Irish Archaeological Society.

91. She was the wife of Oisin, the bard, who is said to have lived and sung for some time at Cushendall, and to have been buried at Donegal.

92. The Rock of Clough-i-Stookan lies on the shore between Glenarm and Cushendall; it has some resemblance to a gigantic human figure.—"The winds whistle through its crevices like the wailing of mariners in distress."—Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii., p. 133.

93. "The Gray Man's Path" (Casan an fir Leith) is a deep and remarkable chasm, dividing the promontory of Fairhead (or Benmore) in two.



THE BELL-FOUNDER.

PART I.—LABOUR AND HOPE.

In that land where the heaven-tinted pencil giveth shape to the splendour of dreams, Near Florence, the fairest of cities, and Arno, the sweetest of streams, 'Neath those hills[94] whence the race of the Geraldine wandered in ages long since, For ever to rule over Desmond and Erin as martyr and prince, Lived Paolo, the young Campanaro,[95] the pride of his own little vale— Hope changed the hot breath of his furnace as into a sea-wafted gale; Peace, the child of Employment, was with him, with prattle so soothing and sweet, And Love, while revealing the future, strewed the sweet roses under his feet.

Ah! little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills, Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills. Ah! little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased slumber enjoys, Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that destroys, Nothing to hope for, or labour for; nothing to sigh for, or gain; Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain; Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with its breath: Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, and death!

But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men, Who, with hammer, or chisel, or pencil, with rudder, or ploughshare, or pen, Laboureth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life, Winning home and its darling divinities—love-worshipped children and wife, Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the sharp chisel rings, And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of kings; He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his race, Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the strong world in the face.

And such was young Paolo! The morning, ere yet the faint starlight had gone, To the loud-ringing workshop beheld him move joyfully light-footed on. In the glare and the roar of the furnace he toiled till the evening star burned, And then back again through that valley, as glad but more weary returned. One moment at morning he lingers by that cottage that stands by the stream, Many moments at evening he tarries by that casement that woos the moon's beam; For the light of his life and his labours, like a lamp from that casement shines In the heart-lighted face that looks out from that purple-clad trellis of vines.

Francesca! sweet, innocent maiden! 'tis not that thy young cheek is fair, Or thy sun-lighted eyes glance like stars through the curls of thy wind-woven hair; 'Tis not for thy rich lips of coral, or even thy white breast of snow, That my song shall recall thee, Francesca! but more for the good heart below. Goodness is beauty's best portion, a dower that no time can reduce, A wand of enchantment and happiness, brightening and strengthening with use. One the long-sigh'd-for nectar that earthliness bitterly tinctures and taints: One the fading mirage of the fancy, and one the elysium it paints.

Long ago, when thy father would kiss thee, the tears in his old eyes would start, For thy face—like a dream of his boyhood—renewed the fresh youth of his heart; He is gone; but thy mother remaineth, and kneeleth each night-time and morn, And blesses the Mother of Blessings for the hour her Francesca was born. There are proud stately dwellings in Florence, and mothers and maidens are there, And bright eyes as bright as Francesca's, and fair cheeks as brilliantly fair; And hearts, too, as warm and as innocent, there where the rich paintings gleam, But what proud mother blesses her daughter like the mother by Arno's sweet stream?

It was not alone when that mother grew aged and feeble to hear, That thy voice like the whisper of angels still fell on the old woman's ear, Or even that thy face, when the darkness of time overshadowed her sight, Shone calm through the blank of her mind, like the moon in the midst of the night. But thine was the duty, Francesca, and the love-lightened labour was thine, To treasure the white-curling wool and the warm-flowing milk of the kine, And the fruits, and the clusters of purple, and the flock's tender yearly increase, That she might have rest in life's evening, and go to her Father in peace.

Francesca and Paolo are plighted, and they wait but a few happy days, Ere they walk forth together in trustfulness out on Life's wonderful ways; Ere, clasping the hands of each other, they move through the stillness and noise, Dividing the cares of existence, but doubling its hopes and its joys. Sweet days of betrothment, which brighten so slowly to love's burning noon, Like the days of the spring which grow longer, the nearer the fulness of June, Though ye move to the noon and the summer of Love with a slow-moving wing, Ye are lit with the light of the morning, and decked with the blossoms of spring.

The days of betrothment are over, for now when the evening star shines, Two faces look joyfully out from that purple-clad trellis of vines; The light-hearted laughter is doubled, two voices steal forth on the air, And blend in the light notes of song, or the sweet solemn cadence of prayer. At morning when Paolo departeth, 'tis out of that sweet cottage door, At evening he comes to that casement, but passes that casement no more; And the old feeble mother at night-time, when saying, "The Lord's will be done," While blessing the name of a daughter, now blendeth the name of a son.

PART II.—TRIUMPH AND REWARD.

In the furnace the dry branches crackle, the crucible shines as with gold, As they carry the hot flaming metal in haste from the fire to the mould; Loud roars the bellows, and louder the flames as they shrieking escape, And loud is the song of the workmen who watch o'er the fast-filling shape; To and fro in the red-glaring chamber the proud master anxiously moves, And the quick and the skilful he praiseth, and the dull and the laggard reproves; And the heart in his bosom expandeth, as the thick bubbling metal up swells, For like to the birth of his children he watcheth the birth of the bells.

Peace had guarded the door of young Paolo, success on his industry smiled, And the dark wing of Time had passed quicker than grief from the face of a child; Broader lands lay around that sweet cottage, younger footsteps tripped lightly around, And the sweet silent stillness was broken by the hum of a still sweeter sound. At evening when homeward returning how many dear hands must he press, Where of old at that vine-covered wicket he lingered but one to caress; And that dearest one is still with him, to counsel, to strengthen, and calm, And to pour over Life's needful wounds the healing of Love's blessed balm.

But age will come on with its winter, though happiness hideth its snows; And if youth has its duty of labour, the birthright of age is repose: And thus from that love-sweetened toil, which the heavens had so prospered and blest, The old Campanaro will go to that vine-covered cottage to rest; But Paolo is pious and grateful, and vows as he kneels at her shrine, To offer some fruit of his labour to Mary the Mother benign— Eight silver-toned bells will he offer, to toll for the quick and the dead, From the tower of the church of her convent that stands on the cliff overhead.

'Tis for this that the bellows are blowing, that the workmen their sledge-hammers wield, That the firm sandy moulds are now broken, and the dark-shining bells are revealed; The cars with their streamers are ready, and the flower-harnessed necks of the steers, And the bells from their cold silent workshop are borne amid blessings and tears. By the white-blossom'd, sweet-scented myrtles, by the olive-trees fringing the plain, By the corn-fields and vineyards is winding that gift-bearing, festival train; And the hum of their voices is blending with the music that streams on the gale, As they wend to the Church of our Lady that stands at the head of the vale.

Now they enter, and now more divinely the saints' painted effigies smile, Now the acolytes bearing lit tapers move solemnly down through the aisle, Now the thurifer swings the rich censer, and the white curling vapour up-floats, And hangs round the deep-pealing organ, and blends with the tremulous notes. In a white shining alb comes the abbot, and he circles the bells round about, And with oil, and with salt, and with water, they are purified inside and out; They are marked with Christ's mystical symbol, while the priests and the choristers sing, And are bless'd in the name of that God to whose honour they ever shall ring.

Toll, toll! with a rapid vibration, with a melody silv'ry and strong, The bells from the sound-shaken belfry are singing their first maiden song; Not now for the dead or the living, or the triumphs of peace or of strife, But a quick joyous outburst of jubilee full of their newly-felt life; Rapid, more rapid, the clapper rebounds from the round of the bells— Far and more far through the valley the intertwined melody swells— Quivering and broken the atmosphere trembles and twinkles around, Like the eyes and the hearts of the hearers that glisten and beat to the sound.

But how to express all his rapture when echo the deep cadence bore To the old Campanaro reclining in the shade of his vine-covered door, How to tell of the bliss that came o'er him as he gazed on the fair evening star, And heard the faint toll of the vesper bell steal o'er the vale from afar— Ah! it was not alone the brief ecstasy music doth ever impart When Sorrow and Joy at its bidding come together and dwell in the heart; But it was that delicious sensation with which the young mother is blest, As she lists to the laugh of her child as it falleth asleep on her breast.

From a sweet night of slumber he woke; but it was not that morn had unroll'd O'er the pale, cloudy tents of the Orient, her banners of purple and gold: It was not the song of the skylark that rose from the green pastures near, But the sound of his bells that fell softly, as dew on the slumberer's ear. At that sound he awoke and arose, and went forth on the bead-bearing grass— At that sound, with his loving Francesca, he piously knelt at the Mass. If the sun shone in splendour around him, and that certain music were dumb, He would deem it a dream of the night-time, and doubt if the morning had come.

At noon, as he lay in the sultriness, under his broad-leafy limes, Far sweeter than murmuring waters came the tone of the Angelus chimes. Pious and tranquil he rose, and uncovered his reverend head, And thrice was the Ave Maria and thrice was the Angelus said, Sweet custom the South still retaineth, to turn for a moment away From the pleasures and pains of existence, from the trouble and turmoil of day, From the tumult within and without, to the peace that abideth on high, When the deep, solemn sound from the belfry comes down like a voice from the sky.

And thus round the heart of the old man, at morning, at noon, and at eve, The bells, with their rich woof of music, the net-work of happiness weave, They ring in the clear, tranquil evening, and lo! all the air is alive, As the sweet-laden thoughts come, like bees, to abide in the heart as a hive. They blend with his moments of joy, as the odour doth blend with the flower— They blend with his light-falling tears, as the sunshine doth blend with the shower. As their music is mirthful or mournful, his pulse beateth sluggish or fast, And his breast takes its hue, like the ocean, as the sunshine or shadows are cast.

Thus adding new zest to enjoyment, and drawing the sharp sting from pain, The heart of the old man grew young, as it drank the sweet musical strain. Again at the altar he stands, with Francesca the fair at his side, As the bells ring a quick peal of gladness, to welcome some happy young bride. 'Tis true, when the death bells are tolling, the wounds of his heart bleed anew, When he thinks of his old loving mother, and the darlings that destiny slew; But the tower in whose shade they are sleeping seems the emblem of hope and of love,— There is silence and death at its base, but there's life in the belfry above.

Was it the sound of his bells, as they swung in the purified air, That drove from the bosom of Paolo the dark-wing'ed demons of care? Was it their magical tone that for many a shadowless day (So faith once believed) swept the clouds and the black-boding tempests away? Ah! never may Fate with their music a harsh-grating dissonance blend! Sure an evening so calm and so bright will glide peacefully on to the end. Sure the course of his life, to its close, like his own native river must be, Flowing on through the valley of flowers to its home in the bright summer sea!

PART III.—VICISSITUDE AND REST.

O Erin! thou broad-spreading valley—thou well-watered land of fresh streams, When I gaze on thy hills greenly sloping, where the light of such loveliness beams, When I rest by the rim of thy fountains, or stray where thy streams disembogue, Then I think that the fairies have brought me to dwell in the bright Tir-na-n-oge.[96] But when on the face of thy children I look, and behold the big tears Still stream down their grief-eaten channels, which widen and deepen with years, I fear that some dark blight for ever will fall on thy harvests of peace, And that, like thy lakes and thy rivers, thy sorrows must ever increase.[97]

O land! which the heavens made for joy, but where wretchedness buildeth its throne— O prodigal spendthrift of sorrow! and hast thou not heirs of thine own? Thus to lavish thy sons' only portion, and bring one sad claimant the more, From the sweet sunny lands of the south, to thy crowded and sorrowful shore? For this proud bark that cleaveth thy waters, she is not a corrach of thine, And the broad purple sails that spread o'er her seem dyed in the juice of the vine. Not thine is that flag, backward floating, nor the olive-cheek'd seamen who guide, Nor that heart-broken old man who gazes so listlessly over the tide.

Accurs'd be the monster, who selfishly draweth his sword from its sheath; Let his garland be twined by the furies, and the upas tree furnish the wreath; Let the blood he has shed steam around him, through the length of eternity's years, And the anguish-wrung screams of his victims for ever resound in his ears. For all that makes life worth possessing must yield to his self-seeking lust: He trampleth on home and on love, as his war-horses trample the dust; He loosens the red streams of ruin, which wildly, though partially, stray— They but chafe round the rock-bastion'd castle, while they sweep the frail cottage away.

Feuds fell like a plague upon Florence, and rage from without and within; Peace turned her mild eyes from the havoc, and Mercy grew deaf in the din; Fear strengthened the dove-wings of happiness, tremblingly borne on the gale; And the angel Security vanished, as the war-demon swept o'er the vale. Is it for the Mass or the Angelus new that the bells ever ring? Or is it the red trickling mist such a purple reflection doth fling? Ah, no: 'tis the tocsin of terror that tolls from the desolate shrine; And the down-trodden vineyards are flowing, but not with the blood of the vine.

Deadly and dark was the tempest that swept o'er that vine-cover'd plain; Burning and withering, its drops fell like fire on the grass and the grain. But the gloomiest moments must pass to their graves, as the brightest and best, And thus once again did fair Fiesole look o'er a valley of rest. But, oh! in that brief hour of horror, that bloody eclipse of the sun, What hopes and what dreams have been shattered?—what ruin and wrong have been done? What blossoms for ever have faded, that promised a harvest so fair; And what joys are laid low in the dust that eternity cannot repair!

Look down on that valley of sorrows, whence the land-marks of joy are removed, Oh! where is the darling Francesca, so loving, so dearly beloved?— And where are her children, whose voices rose music-winged once form this spot? And why are the sweet bells now silent? and where is the vine-cover'd cot? 'Tis morning—no Mass-bell is tolling; 'tis noon, but no Angelus rings; 'Tis evening, but no drops of melody rain from her rose-coloured wings. Ah! where have the angels, poor Paolo, that guarded thy cottage door flown? And why have they left thee to wander thus childless and joyless alone?

His children had grown into manhood, but, ah! in that terrible night Which had fallen on fair Florence, they perished away in the thick of the fight; Heart-blinded, his darling Francesca went seeking her sons through the gloom, And found them at length, and lay down full of love by their side in the tomb, That cottage, its vine-cover'd porch and its myrtle-bound garden of flowers, That church whence the bells with their voices, drown'd the sound of the fast-flying hours, Both are levelled and laid in the dust, and the sweet-sounding bells have been torn From their downfallen beams, and away by the red hand of sacrilege borne.

As the smith, in the dark, sullen smithy, striketh quick on the anvil below, Thus Fate on the heart of the old man struck rapidly blow after blow: Wife, children, and hope passed away from the heart once so burning and bold, As the bright shining sparks disappear when the red glowing metal grows cold. He missed not the sound of his bells while those death-sounds struck loud in the ears, He missed not the church where they rang while his old eyes were blinded with tears; But the calmness of grief coming soon, in its sadness and silence profound, He listened once more as of old, but in vain, for the joy-bearing sound.

When he felt indeed they had vanished, one fancy then flashed on his brain, One wish made his heart beat anew with a throbbing it could not restrain— 'Twas to wander away from fair Florence, its memory and dream-haunted dells, And to seek up and down through the earth for the sound of its magical bells. They will speak of the hopes that have perished, and the joys that have faded so fast With the music of memory wing'ed, they will seem but the voice of the past; As, when the bright morning has vanished, and evening grows starless and dark, The nightingale song of remembrance recalls the sweet strain of the lark.

Thus restlessly wandering through Italy, now by the Adrian sea, In the shrine of Loreto, he bendeth his travel-tired suppliant knee; And now by the brown troubled Tiber he taketh his desolate way, And in many a shady basilica lingers to listen and pray. He prays for the dear ones snatched from him, nor vainly nor hopelessly prays, For the strong faith in union hereafter like a beam o'er his cold bosom plays; He listens at morning and evening, when matin and vesper bells toll, But their sweetest sounds grate on his ear, and their music is harsh to his soul.

For though sweet are the bells that ring out from the tall campanili of Rome, Ah! they are not the dearer and sweeter ones, tuned with the memory of home. So leaving proud Rome and fair Tivoli, southward the old man must stray, 'Till he reaches the Eden of waters that sparkle in Napoli's bay: He sees not the blue waves of Baiae, nor Ischia's summits of brown, He sees but the high campanili that rise o'er each far-gleaming town. Driven restlessly onward, he saileth away to the bright land of Spain, And seeketh thy shrine, Santiago, and stands by the western main.

A bark bound for Erin lay waiting, he entered like one in a dream; Fair winds in the full purple sails led him soon to the Shannon's broad stream. 'Twas an evening that Florence might envy, so rich was the lemon-hued air, As it lay on lone Scattery's island, or lit the green mountains of Clare; The wide-spreading old giant river rolled his waters as smooth and as still As if Oonagh, with all her bright nymphs, had come down from the far fairy hill,[98] To fling her enchantments around on the mountains, the air, and the tide, And to soothe the worn heart of the old man who looked from the dark vessel's side.

Borne on the current the vessel glides smoothly but swiftly away, By Carrigaholt, and by many a green sloping headland and bay, 'Twixt Cratloe's blue hills and green woods, and the soft sunny shores of Tervoe, And now the fair city of Limerick spreads out on the broad bank below; Still nearer and nearer approaching, the mariners look o'er the town, The old man sees nought but St. Mary's square tower, with its battlements brown. He listens—as yet all is silent, but now, with a sudden surprise, A rich peal of melody rings from that tower through the clear evening skies!

One note is enough—his eye moistens, his heart, long so wither'd, outswells, He has found them—the sons of his labours—his musical, magical bells! At each stroke all the bright past returneth, around him the sweet Arno shines, His children—his darling Francesca—his purple-clad trellis of vines! Leaning forward, he listens, he gazes, he hears in that wonderful strain The long-silent voices that murmur, "Oh, leave us not, father again!" 'Tis granted—he smiles—his eye closes—the breath from his white lips hath fled— The father has gone to his children—the old Campanaro is dead!

94. The hills of Else. See Appendix to O'Daly's "History of the Geraldines," translated by the Rev. C. P. Meehan, p. 130.

95. Bell-founder.

96. The country of youth; the Elysium of the Pagan Irish.

97. Camden seems to credit a tradition commonly believed in his time, of a gradual increase in the number and size of the lakes and rivers of Ireland.

98. The beautiful hill in Lower Ormond called "Knockshegowna," i.e., Oonagh's Hill, so called from being the fabled residence of Oonagh (or Una), the Fairy Queen of Spenser. One of the finest views of the Shannon is to be seen from this hill.



ALICE AND UNA. A TALE OF CEIM-AN-EICH.[99]

Ah! the pleasant time hath vanished, ere our wretched doubtings banished, All the graceful spirit-people, children of the earth and sea, Whom in days now dim and olden, when the world was fresh and golden, Every mortal could behold in haunted rath, and tower, and tree— They have vanished, they are banished—ah! how sad the loss for thee, Lonely Ceim-an-eich!

Still some scenes are yet enchanted by the charms that Nature granted, Still are peopled, still are haunted, by a graceful spirit band. Peace and beauty have their dwelling where the infant streams are welling, Where the mournful waves are knelling on Glengariff's coral strand; Or where, on Killarney's mountains, Grace and Terror smiling stand, Like sisters, hand in hand!

Still we have a new romance in fire-ships through the tamed sea glancing, And the snorting and the prancing of the mighty engine steed; Still, Astolpho-like, we wander through the boundless azure yonder, Realizing what seemed fonder than the magic tales we read: Tales of wild Arabian wonder, where the fancy all is freed— Wilder far indeed!

Now that Earth once more hath woken, and the trance of Time is broken, And the sweet word—Hope—is spoken, soft and sure, though none know how, Could we, could we only see all these, the glories of the Real, Blended with the lost Ideal, happy were the old world now— Woman in its fond believing—man with iron arm and brow— Faith and work its vow!

Yes! the Past shines clear and pleasant, and there's glory in the Present; And the Future, like a crescent, lights the deepening sky of Time; And that sky will yet grow brighter, if the Worker and the Writer— If the Sceptre and the Mitre join in sacred bonds sublime. With two glories shining o'er them, up the coming years they'll climb, Earth's great evening as its prime!

With a sigh for what is fading, but, O Earth! with no upbraiding, For we feel that time is braiding newer, fresher flowers for thee, We will speak, despite our grieving, words of loving and believing, Tales we vowed when we were leaving awful Ceim-an-eich, Where the sever'd rocks resemble fragments of a frozen sea, And the wild deer flee!

'Tis the hour when flowers are shrinking, when the weary sun is sinking, And his thirsty steeds are drinking in the cooling western sea; When young Maurice lightly goeth, where the tiny streamlet floweth And the struggling moonlight showeth where his path must be— Path whereon the wild goats wander fearlessly and free Through dark Ceim-an-eich.

As a hunter, danger daring, with his dogs the brown moss sharing, Little thinking, little caring, long a wayward youth lived he; But his bounding heart was regal, and he looked as looks the eagle, And he flew as flies the beagle, who the panting stag doth see: Love, who spares a fellow-archer, long had let him wander free Through wild Ceim-an-eich!

But at length the hour drew nigher when his heart should feel that fire; Up the mountain high and higher had he hunted from the dawn; Till the weeping fawn descended, where the earth and ocean blended, And with hope its slow way wended to a little grassy lawn; It is safe, for gentle Alice to her saving breast hath drawn Her almost sister fawn.

Alice was a chieftain's daughter, and, though many suitors sought her, She so loved Glengariff's water that she let her lovers pine; Her eye was beauty's palace, and her cheek an ivory chalice, Through which the blood of Alice gleamed soft as rosiest wine, And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the fairies intertwine,[100] And her heart a golden mine.

She was gentler and shyer than the light fawn that stood by her, And her eyes emit a fire soft and tender as her soul; Love's dewy light doth drown her, and the braided locks that crown her Than autumn's trees are browner, when the golden shadows roll Through the forests in the evening, when cathedral turrets toll, And the purple sun advanceth to its goal.

Her cottage was a dwelling all regal homes excelling, But, ah! beyond the telling was the beauty round it spread: The wave and sunshine playing, like sisters each arraying, Far down the sea-plants swaying upon their coral bed, As languid as the tresses on a sleeping maiden's head, When the summer breeze is dead.

Need we say that Maurice loved her, and that no blush reproved her When her throbbing bosom moved her to give the heart she gave; That by dawnlight and by twilight, and, O blessed moon! by thy light, When the twinkling stars on high light the wanderer o'er the wave, His steps unconscious led him where Glengariff's waters lave Each mossy bank and cave.

He thitherward is wending, o'er the vale is night descending, Quick his step, but quicker sending his herald thoughts before; By rocks and streams before him, proud and hopeful on he bore him; One star was shining o'er him—in his heart of hearts two more— And two other eyes, far brighter than a human head e'er wore, Unseen were shining o'er.

These eyes are not of woman, no brightness merely human Could, planet-like, illumine the place in which they shone; But Nature's bright works vary—there are beings light and airy, Whom mortal lips call fairy, and Una she is one— Sweet sisters of the moonbeams and daughters of the sun, Who along the curling cool waves run.

As summer lightning dances amid the heavens' expanses, Thus shone the burning glances of those flashing fairy eyes; Three splendours there were shining, three passions intertwining, Despair and hope combining their deep-contrasted dyes, With jealousy's green lustre, as troubled ocean vies With the blue of summer skies!

She was a fairy creature, of heavenly form and feature, Not Venus' self could teach her a newer, sweeter grace, Not Venus' self could lend her an eye so dark and tender, Half softness and half splendour, as lit her lily face; And as the choral planets move harmonious throughout space, There was music in her pace.

But when at times she started, and her blushing lips were parted, And a pearly lustre darted from her teeth so ivory white, You'd think you saw the gliding of two rosy clouds dividing, And the crescent they were hiding gleam forth upon your sight Through these lips, as though the portals of a heaven pure and bright, Came a breathing of delight!

Though many an elf-king loved her, and elf-dames grave reproved her, The hunter's daring moved her more wildly every hour; Unseen she roamed beside him, to guard him and to guide him, But now she must divide him from her human rival's power. Ah! Alice!—gentle Alice! the storm begins to lower That may crush Glengariff's flower!

The moon, that late was gleaming, as calm as childhood's dreaming, Is hid, and, wildly screaming, the stormy winds arise; And the clouds flee quick and faster before their sullen master, And the shadows of disaster are falling from the skies; Strange sights and sounds are rising—but, Maurice, be thou wise, Nor heed the tempting cries.

If ever mortal needed that council, surely he did; But the wile has now succeeded—he wanders from his path; The cloud its lightning sendeth, and its bolt the stout oak rendeth, And the arbutus back bendeth in the whirlwind, as a lath! Now and then the moon looks out, but, alas! its pale face hath A dreadful look of wrath.

In vain his strength he squanders—at each step he wider wanders— Now he pauses—now he ponders where his present path may lead; And, as he round is gazing, he sees—a sight amazing— Beneath him, calmly grazing, a noble jet-black steed. "Now, heaven be praised!" cried Maurice, "for this succour in my need— From this labyrinth I'm freed!"

Upon its back he leapeth, but a shudder through him creepeth, As the mighty monster sweepeth like a torrent through the dell; His mane, so softly flowing, is now a meteor blowing, And his burning eyes are glowing with the light of an inward hell; And the red breath of his nostrils, like steam where the lightning fell; And his hoofs have a thunder knell!

What words have we for painting the momentary fainting That the rider's heart is tainting, as decay doth taint a corse? But who will stoop to chiding, in a fancied courage priding, When we know that he is riding the fearful Phooka Horse?[101] Ah! his heart beats quick and faster than the smitings of remorse As he sweepeth through the wild grass and gorse!

As the avalanche comes crashing, 'mid the scattered streamlets splashing, Thus backward wildly dashing flew the horse through Ceim-an-eich— Through that glen so wide and narrow back he darted like an arrow— Round, round by Gougane Barra, and the fountains of the Lee; O'er the Giant's Grave he leapeth, and he seems to own in fee The mountains, and the rivers, and the sea!

From his flashing hoofs who shall lock the eagle homes of Malloc, When he bounds, as bounds the Mialloch[102] in its wild and murmuring tide? But as winter leadeth Flora, or the night leads on Aurora, Or as shines green Glashenglora[103] along the black hill's side, Thus, beside that demon monster, white and gentle as a bride, A tender fawn is seen to glide.

It is the fawn that fled him, and that late to Alice led him, But now it does not dread him, as it feigned to do before, When down the mountain gliding, in that sheltered meadow hiding, It left his heart abiding by wild Glengariff's shore: For it was a gentle fairy who the fawn's light form thus wore, And who watched sweet Alice o'er.

But the steed is backward prancing where late it was advancing, And his flashing eyes are glancing, like the sun upon Lough Foyle; The hardest granite crushing, through the thickest brambles brushing, Now like a shadow rushing up the sides of Slieve-na-goil! And the fawn beside him gliding o'er the rough and broken soil, Without fear and without toil.

Through woods, the sweet birds' leaf home, he rusheth to the sea foam, Long, long the fairies' chief home, when the summer nights are cool, And the blue sea, like a syren, with its waves the steed environ, Which hiss like furnace iron when plunged within a pool, Then along among the islands where the water nymphs bear rule, Through the bay to Adragool.

Now he rises o'er Berehaven, where he hangeth like a raven— Ah! Maurice, though no craven, how terrible for thee To see the misty shading of the mighty mountains fading, And thy winged fire-steed wading through the clouds as through a sea! Now he feels the earth beneath him—he is loosen'd—he is free, And asleep in Ceim-an-eich.

Away the wild steed leapeth, while his rider calmly sleepeth Beneath a rock which keepeth the entrance to the glen, Which standeth like a castle, where are dwelling lord and vassal, Where within are wind and wassail, and without are warrior men; But save the sleeping Maurice, this castle cliff had then No mortal denizen![104]

Now Maurice is awaking, for the solid earth is shaking, And a sunny light is breaking through the slowly opening stone And a fair page at the portal crieth, "Welcome, welcome! mortal, Leave thy world (at best a short ill), for the pleasant world we own: There are joys by thee untasted, there are glories yet unknown— Come kneel at Una's throne."

With a sullen sound of thunder, the great rock falls asunder, He looks around in wonder, and with ravishment awhile, For the air his sense is chaining, with as exquisite a paining As when summer clouds are raining o'er a flowery Indian isle; And the faces that surround him, oh! how exquisite their smile, So free of mortal care and guile.

These forms, oh! they are finer—these faces are diviner Than, Phidias, even thine are, with all thy magic art; For beyond an artist's guessing, and beyond a bard's expressing, Is the face that truth is dressing with the feelings of the heart; Two worlds are there together—earth and heaven have each a part— And of such, divinest Una, thou art!

And then the dazzling lustre of the hall in which they muster— Where the brightest diamonds cluster on the flashing walls around; And the flying and advancing, and the sighing and the glancing. And the music and the dancing on the flower-inwoven ground, And the laughing and the feasting, and the quaffing and the sound, In which their voices all are drowned.

But the murmur now is hushing—there's a pushing and a rushing, There's a crowding and a crushing, through that golden, fairy place, Where a snowy veil is lifting, like the slow and silent shifting Of a shining vapour drifting across the moon's pale face— For there sits gentle Una, fairest queen of fairy race, In her beauty, and her majesty, and grace.

The moon by stars attended, on her pearly throne ascended, Is not more purely splendid than this fairy-girted queen; And when her lips had spoken, 'mid the charmed silence broken, You'd think you had awoken in some bright Elysian scene; For her voice than the lark's was sweeter, that sings in joy between The heavens and the meadows green.

But her cheeks—ah! what are roses?—what are clouds where eve reposes?— What are hues that dawn discloses?—to the blushes spreading there; And what the sparkling motion of a star within the ocean, To the crystal soft emotion that her lustrous dark eyes wear? And the tresses of a moonless and a starless night are fair To the blackness of her raven hair.

Ah! mortal hearts have panted for what to thee is granted— To see the halls enchanted of the spirit world revealed; And yet no glimpse assuages the feverish doubt that rages In the hearts of bards and sages wherewith they may be healed; For this have pilgrims wandered—for this have votaries kneeled— For this, too, has blood bedewed the field.

"And now that thou beholdest what the wisest and the oldest, What the bravest and the boldest, have never yet descried, Wilt thou come and share our being, be a part of what thou'rt seeing, And flee, as we are fleeing, through the boundless ether wide? Or along the silver ocean, or down deep where pale pearls hide? And I, who am a queen, will be thy bride.

"As an essence thou wilt enter the world's mysterious centre," And then the fairy bent her, imploring to the youth— "Thou'lt be free of Death's cold ghastness, and, with a comet's fastness, Thou canst wander through the vastness to the Paradise of Truth, Each day a new joy bringing, which will never leave in sooth The slightest stain of weariness and ruth."

As he listened to the speaker, his heart grew weak and weaker— Ah! Memory, go seek her, that maiden by the wave, Who with terror and amazement is looking from her casement, Where the billows at the basement of her nestled cottage rave, At the moon which struggles onward through the tempest, like the brave, And which sinks within the clouds as in a grave.

All maidens will abhor us, and it's very painful for us To tell how faithless Maurice forgot his plighted vow: He thinks not of the breaking of the heart he late was seeking, He but listens to her speaking, and but gazes on her brow; And his heart has all consented, and his lips are ready now With the awful and irrevocable vow.

While the word is there abiding, lo! the crowd is now dividing, And, with sweet and gentle gliding, in before him came a fawn; It was the same that fled him, and that seemed so much to dread him, When it down in triumph led him to Glengariff's grassy lawn, When, from rock to rock descending, to sweet Alice he was drawn, As through Ceim-an-eich he hunted from the dawn.

The magic chain is broken—no fairy vow is spoken— From his trance he hath awoken, and once again is free; And gone is Una's palace, and vain the wild steed's malice, And again to gentle Alice down he wends through Ceim-an-eich: The moon is calmly shining over mountain, stream, and tree, And the yellow sea-plants glisten through the sea.

The sun his gold is flinging, the happy birds are singing, And bells are gaily ringing along Glengariff's sea; And crowds in many a galley to the happy marriage rally Of the maiden of the valley and the youth of Ceim-an-eich; Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask on bended knee A blessing, gentle Alice, upon thee!

99. The pass of Keim-an-eigh (the path of the deer) lies to the south-west of Inchageela, in the direction of Bantry Bay.

100. The lusmore (or fairy cap), literally the great herb, 'Digitalis purpurea.'

101. The Phooka is described as belonging to the malignant class of fairy beings, and he is as wild and capricious in his character as he is changeable in his form. At one time an eagle or an 'ignis fatuus,' at another a horse or a bull, while occasionally he figures as a compound of the calf and goat. When he assumes the form of a horse, his great object, according to a recent writer, seems to be to obtain a rider, and then he is in his most malignant glory.—See Croker's "Fairy Legends."

102. Mialloch, "the murmuring river" at Glengariff.—Smith's "Cork."

103. Glashenglora, a mountain torrent, which finds its way into the Atlantic Ocean through Glengariff, in the west of the county of Cork. The name, literally translated, signifies "the noisy green water."—Barry's "Songs of Ireland," p. 173.

104. There is a great square rock, literally resembling the description in the text, which stands near the Glengariff entrance to the pass of Ceim-an-eich.



National Poems and Songs.



ADVANCE!

God bade the sun with golden step sublime, Advance! He whispered in the listening ear of Time, Advance! He bade the guiding spirits of the stars, With lightning speed, in silver shining cars, Along the bright floor of his azure hall, Advance! Sun, stars, and time obey the voice, and all Advance!

The river at its bubbling fountain cries, Advance! The clouds proclaim, like heralds through the skies, Advance! Throughout the world the mighty Master's laws Allow not one brief moment's idle pause; The earth is full of life, the swelling seeds Advance! And summer hours, like flowery harnessed steeds, Advance!

To man's most wondrous hand the same voice cried, Advance! Go clear the woods, and o'er the bounding tide Advance! Go draw the marble from its secret bed, And make the cedar bend its giant head; Let domes and columns through the wondering air Advance! The world, O man! is thine; but, wouldst thou share, Advance!

Unto the soul of man the same voice spoke, Advance! From out the chaos, thunder-like, it broke, "Advance! Go track the comet in its wheeling race, And drag the lightning from its hiding-place; From out the night of ignorance and fears, Advance! For Love and Hope, borne by the coming years, Advance!"

All heard, and some obeyed the great command, Advance! It passed along from listening land to land, Advance! The strong grew stronger, and the weak grew strong, As passed the war-cry of the world along— Awake, ye nations, know your powers and rights— Advance! Through hope and work to Freedom's new delights, Advance!

Knowledge came down and waved her steady torch, Advance! Sages proclaimed 'neath many a marble porch, Advance! As rapid lightning leaps from peak to peak, The Gaul, the Goth, the Roman, and the Greek, The painted Briton caught the wing'ed word, Advance! And earth grew young, and carolled as a bird, Advance!

O Ireland! oh, my country, wilt thou not Advance? Wilt thou not share the world's progressive lot?— Advance! Must seasons change, and countless years roll on, And thou remain a darksome Ajalon? And never see the crescent moon of Hope Advance? 'Tis time thine heart and eye had wider scope— Advance!

Dear brothers, wake! look up! be firm! be strong Advance! From out the starless night of fraud and wrong Advance! The chains have fall'n from off thy wasted hands, And every man a seeming freedman stands;— But, ah! 'tis in the soul that freedom dwells,— Advance! Proclaim that there thou wearest no manacles;— Advance!

Advance! thou must advance or perish now;— Advance! Advance! Why live with wasted heart and brow?— Advance! Advance! or sink at once into the grave; Be bravely free or artfully a slave! Why fret thy master, if thou must have one? Advance! Advance three steps, the glorious work is done;— Advance!

The first is COURAGE—'tis a giant stride!— Advance! With bounding step up Freedom's rugged side Advance! KNOWLEDGE will lead thee to the dazzling heights, TOLERANCE will teach and guard thy brother's rights. Faint not! for thee a pitying Future waits— Advance! Be wise, be just, with will as fixed as Fate's,— Advance!



REMONSTRANCE.

Bless the dear old verdant land, Brother, wert thou born of it? As thy shadow life doth stand, Twining round its rosy band, Did an Irish mother's hand Guide thee in the morn of it? Did thy father's soft command Teach thee love or scorn of it?

Thou who tread'st its fertile breast, Dost thou feel a glow for it? Thou, of all its charms possest, Living on its first and best, Art thou but a thankless guest, Or a traitor foe for it? If thou lovest, where the test? Wouldst thou strike a blow for it?

Has the past no goading sting That can make thee rouse for it? Does thy land's reviving spring, Full of buds and blossoming, Fail to make thy cold heart cling, Breathing lover's vows for it? With the circling ocean's ring Thou wert made a spouse for it!

Hast thou kept, as thou shouldst keep, Thy affections warm for it, Letting no cold feeling creep, Like the ice breath o'er the deep, Freezing to a stony sleep Hopes the heart would form for it— Glories that like rainbows weep Through the darkening storm for it?

What we seek is Nature's right— Freedom and the aids of it;— Freedom for the mind's strong flight Seeking glorious shapes star-bright Through the world's intensest night, When the sunshine fades of it! Truth is one, and so is light, Yet how many shades of it!

A mirror every heart doth wear, For heavenly shapes to shine in it; If dim the glass or dark the air, That Truth, the beautiful and fair, God's glorious image, shines not there, Or shines with nought divine in it: A sightless lion in its lair, The darkened soul must pine in it!

Son of this old, down-trodden land, Then aid us in the fight for it; We seek to make it great and grand, Its shipless bays, its naked strand, By canvas-swelling breezes fanned. Oh! what a glorious sight for it! The past expiring like a brand, In morning's rosy light for it!

Think that this dear old land is thine, And thou a traitor slave of it; Think how the Switzer leads his kine, When pale the evening star doth shine, His song has home in every line, Freedom in every stave of it! Think how the German loves his Rhine, And worships every wave of it!

Our own dear land is bright as theirs, But, oh! our hearts are cold for it; Awake! we are not slaves but heirs; Our fatherland requires our cares, Our work with man, with God our prayers. Spurn blood-stained Judas-gold for it, Let us do all that honour dares— Be earnest, faithful, bold for it!



IRELAND'S VOW.

Come! Liberty, come! we are ripe for thy coming— Come freshen the hearts where thy rival has trod— Come, richest and rarest!—come, purest and fairest!— Come, daughter of Science!—come, gift of the God!

Long, long have we sighed for thee, coyest of maidens— Long, long have we worshipped thee, queen of the brave! Steadily sought for thee, readily fought for thee, Purpled the scaffold and glutted the grave!

On went the fight through the cycle of ages, Never our battle-cry ceasing the while; Forward, ye valiant ones! onward, battalioned ones! Strike for your Erin, your own darling isle!

Still in the ranks are we, struggling with eagerness, Still in the battle for Freedom are we! Words may avail in it—swords if they fail in it, What matters the weapon, if only we're free?

Oh! we are pledged in the face of the universe, Never to falter and never to swerve; Toil for it!—bleed for it!—if there be need for it, Stretch every sinew and strain every nerve!

Traitors and cowards our names shall be ever, If for a moment we turn from the chase; For ages exhibited, scoffed at, and gibbeted, As emblems of all that was servile and base!

Irishmen! Irishmen! think what is Liberty, Fountain of all that is valued and dear, Peace and security, knowledge and purity, Hope for hereafter and happiness here.

Nourish it, treasure it deep in your inner heart— Think of it ever by night and by day; Pray for it!—sigh for it!—work for it!—die for it!— What is this life and dear freedom away?

List! scarce a sound can be heard in our thoroughfares— Look! scarce a ship can be seen on our streams; Heart-crushed and desolate, spell-bound, irresolute, Ireland but lives in the bygone of dreams!

Irishmen! if we be true to our promises, Nerving our souls for more fortunate hours, Life's choicest blessings, love's fond caressings, Peace, home, and happiness, all shall be ours!



A DREAM.

I dreamt a dream, a dazzling dream, of a green isle far away, Where the glowing West to the ocean's breast calleth the dying day; And that island green was as fair a scene as ever man's eye did see, With its chieftains bold and its temples old, and its homes and its altars free! No foreign foe did that green isle know, no stranger band it bore, Save the merchant train from sunny Spain, and from Afric's golden shore! And the young man's heart would fondly start, and the old man's eye would smile, As their thoughts would roam o'er the ocean foam to that lone and "holy isle!"

Years passed by, and the orient sky blazed with a newborn light, And Bethlehem's star shone bright afar o'er the lost world's darksome night; And the diamond shrines from plundered mines, and the golden fanes of Jove, Melted away in the blaze of day at the simple spellword—Love! The light serene o'er that island green played with its saving beams, And the fires of Baal waxed dim and pale like the stars in the morning streams! And 'twas joy to hear, in the bright air clear, from out each sunny glade, The tinkling bell, from the quiet cell, or the cloister's tranquil shade!

A cloud of night o'er that dream so bright soon with its dark wing came, And the happy scene of that island green was lost in blood and shame; For its kings unjust betrayed their trust, and its queens, though fair, were frail, And a robber band, from a stranger land, with their war-whoops filled the gale; A fatal spell on that green isle fell, a shadow of death and gloom Passed withering o'er, from shore to shore, like the breath of the foul simoom; And each green hill's side was crimson dyed, and each stream rolled red and wild, With the mingled blood of the brave and good—of mother and maid and child!

Dark was my dream, though many a gleam of hope through that black night broke, Like a star's bright form through a whistling storm, or the moon through a midnight oak! And many a time, with its wings sublime, and its robes of saffron light, Would the morning rise on the eastern skies, but to vanish again in night! For, in abject prayer, the people there still raised their fettered hands, When the sense of right and the power to smite are the spirit that commands; For those who would sneer at the mourner's tear, and heed not the suppliant's sigh, Would bow in awe to that first great law, a banded nation's cry!

At length arose o'er that isle of woes a dawn with a steadier smile, And in happy hour a voice of power awoke the slumbering isle! And the people all obeyed the call of their chief's unsceptred hand, Vowing to raise, as in ancient days, the name of their own dear land! My dream grew bright as the sunbeam's light, as I watched that isle's career, Through the varied scene and the joys serene of many a future year; And, oh! what a thrill did my bosom fill as I gazed on a pillared pile, Where a senate once more in power watched o'er the rights of that lone green isle!



THE PRICE OF FREEDOM.

Man of Ireland, heir of sorrow, Wronged, insulted, scorned, oppressed, Wilt thou never see that morrow When thy weary heart may rest? Lift thine eyes, thou outraged creature; Nay, look up, for man thou art, Man in form, and frame, and feature, Why not act man's god-like part?

Think, reflect, inquire, examine, Is it for this God gave you birth— With the spectre look of famine, Thus to creep along the earth? Does this world contain no treasures Fit for thee, as man, to wear?— Does this life abound in pleasures, And thou askest not to share?

Look! the nations are awaking, Every chain that bound them burst! At the crystal fountains slaking With parched lips their fever thirst! Ignorance the demon, fleeing, Leaves unlocked the fount they sip; Wilt thou not, thou wretched being, Stoop and cool thy burning lip?

History's lessons, if thou'lt read 'em, All proclaim this truth to thee: Knowledge is the price of freedom, Know thyself, and thou art free! Know, O man! thy proud vocation, Stand erect, with calm, clear brow— Happy! happy were our nation, If thou hadst that knowledge now!

Know thy wretched, sad condition, Know the ills that keep thee so; Knowledge is the sole physician, Thou wert healed if thou didst know! Those who crush, and scorn, and slight thee, Those to whom thou once wouldst kneel, Were the foremost then to right thee, Didst thou but feel as thou shouldst feel!

Not as beggars lowly bending, Not in sighs, and groans, and tears, But a voice of thunder sending Through thy tyrant brother's ears! Tell him he is not thy master, Tell him of man's common lot, Feel life has but one disaster, To be a slave, and know it not!

Didst but prize what knowledge giveth, Didst but know how blest is he Who in Freedom's presence liveth, Thou wouldst die, or else be free! Round about he looks in gladness, Joys in heaven, and earth, and sea, Scarcely heaves a sigh of sadness, Save in thoughts of such as thee!



THE VOICE AND PEN.

Oh! the orator's voice is a mighty power, As it echoes from shore to shore, And the fearless pen has more sway o'er men Than the murderous cannon's roar! What burst the chain far over the main, And brighten'd the captive's den? 'Twas the fearless pen and the voice of power, Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen! Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

The tyrant knaves who deny man's rights, And the cowards who blanch with fear, Exclaim with glee: "No arms have ye, Nor cannon, nor sword, nor spear! Your hills are ours—with our forts and towers We are masters of mount and glen!" Tyrants, beware! for the arms we bear Are the Voice and the fearless Pen! Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

Though your horsemen stand with their bridles in hand, And your sentinels walk around! Though your matches flare in the midnight air, And your brazen trumpets sound! Oh! the orator's tongue shall be heard among These listening warrior men; And they'll quickly say: "Why should we slay Our friends of the Voice and Pen?" Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

When the Lord created the earth and sea, The stars and the glorious sun, The Godhead spoke, and the universe woke And the mighty work was done! Let a word be flung from the orator's tongue, Or a drop from the fearless pen, And the chains accursed asunder burst That fettered the minds of men! Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

Oh! these are the swords with which we fight, The arms in which we trust, Which no tyrant hand will dare to brand, Which time cannot dim or rust! When these we bore we triumphed before, With these we'll triumph again! And the world will say no power can stay The Voice and the fearless Pen! Hurrah! Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!



"CEASE TO DO EVIL—LEARN TO DO WELL."[105]

Oh! thou whom sacred duty hither calls, Some glorious hours in freedom's cause to dwell, Read the mute lesson on thy prison walls, "Cease to do evil—learn to do well."

If haply thou art one of genius vast, Of generous heart, of mind sublime and grand, Who all the spring-time of thy life has pass'd Battling with tyrants for thy native land, If thou hast spent thy summer as thy prime, The serpent brood of bigotry to quell, Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, "Cease to do evil—learn to do well!"

If thy great heart beat warmly in the cause Of outraged man, whate'er his race might be, If thou hast preached the Christian's equal laws, And stayed the lash beyond the Indian sea! If at thy call a nation rose sublime, If at thy voice seven million fetters fell,— Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, "Cease to do evil—learn to do well!"

If thou hast seen thy country's quick decay, And, like the prophet, raised thy saving hand, And pointed out the only certain way To stop the plague that ravaged o'er the land! If thou hast summoned from an alien clime Her banished senate here at home to dwell: Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime, "Cease to do evil—learn to do well!"

Or if, perchance, a younger man thou art, Whose ardent soul in throbbings doth aspire, Come weal, come woe, to play the patriot's part In the bright footsteps of thy glorious sire If all the pleasures of life's youthful time Thou hast abandoned for the martyr's cell, Do thou repent thee of thy hideous crime, "Cease to do evil—learn to do well!"

Or art thou one whom early science led To walk with Newton through the immense of heaven, Who soared with Milton, and with Mina bled, And all thou hadst in freedom's cause hast given? Oh! fond enthusiast—in the after time Our children's children of thy worth shall tell— England proclaims thy honesty a crime, "Cease to do evil—learn to do well!"

Or art thou one whose strong and fearless pen Roused the Young Isle, and bade it dry its tears, And gathered round thee ardent, gifted men, The hope of Ireland in the coming years? Who dares in prose and heart-awakening rhyme, Bright hopes to breathe and bitter truths to tell? Oh! dangerous criminal, repent thy crime, "Cease to do evil—learn to do well!"

"Cease to do evil"—ay! ye madmen, cease! Cease to love Ireland—cease to serve her well; Make with her foes a foul and fatal peace, And quick will ope your darkest, dreariest cell. "Learn to do well"—ay! learn to betray, Learn to revile the land in which you dwell England will bless you on your altered way "Cease to do evil—learn to do well!"

105. This inscription is on the front of Richmond Penitentiary, Dublin, in which O'Connell and the other political prisoners were confined in the year 1844.



THE LIVING LAND.

We have mourned and sighed for our buried pride,[106] We have given what nature gives, A manly tear o'er a brother's bier, But now for the Land that lives! He who passed too soon, in his glowing noon, The hope of our youthful band, From heaven's blue wall doth seem to call "Think, think of your Living Land! I dwell serene in a happier scene, Ye dwell in a Living Land!"

Yes! yes! dear shade, thou shalt be obeyed, We must spend the hour that flies, In no vain regret for the sun that has set, But in hope for another to rise; And though it delay with its guiding ray, We must each, with his little brand, Like sentinels light through the dark, dark night, The steps of our Living Land. She needeth our care in the chilling air— Our old, dear Living Land!

Yet our breasts will throb, and the tears will throng To our eyes for many a day, For an eagle in strength and a lark in song Was the spirit that passed away. Though his heart be still as a frozen rill, And pulseless his glowing hand, We must struggle the more for that old green shore He was making a Living Land. By him we have lost, at whatever the cost, She must be a Living Land!

A Living Land, such as Nature plann'd, When she hollowed our harbours deep, When she bade the grain wave o'er the plain, And the oak wave over the steep: When she bade the tide roll deep and wide, From its source to the ocean strand, Oh! it was not to slaves she gave these waves, But to sons of a Living Land! Sons who have eyes and hearts to prize The worth of a Living Land!

Oh! when shall we lose the hostile hues, That have kept us so long apart? Or cease from the strife, that is crushing the life From out of our mother's heart? Could we lay aside our doubts and our pride, And join in a common band, One hour would see our country free, A young and a Living Land! With a nation's heart and a nation's part, A free and a Living Land!

106. Thomas Davis.



THE DEAD TRIBUNE.

The awful shadow of a great man's death Falls on this land, so sad and dark before— Dark with the famine and the fever breath, And mad dissensions knawing at its core. Oh! let us hush foul discord's maniac roar, And make a mournful truce, however brief, Like hostile armies when the day is o'er! And thus devote the night-time of our grief To tears and prayers for him, the great departed chief.

In "Genoa the Superb" O'Connell dies— That city of Columbus by the sea, Beneath the canopy of azure skies, As high and cloudless as his fame must be. Is it mere chance or higher destiny That brings these names together? One, the bold Wanderer in ways that none had trod but he— The other, too, exploring paths untold; One a new world would seek, and one would save the old!

With childlike incredulity we cry, It cannot be that great career is run, It cannot be but in the eastern sky Again will blaze that mighty world-watch'd sun! Ah! fond deceit, the east is dark and dun, Death's black, impervious cloud is on the skies; Toll the deep bell, and fire the evening gun, Let honest sorrow moisten manly eyes: A glorious sun has set that never more shall rise!

Brothers, who struggle yet in Freedom's van, Where'er your forces o'er the world are spread, The last great champion of the rights of man— The last great Tribune of the world is dead! Join in our grief, and let our tears be shed Without reserve or coldness on his bier; Look on his life as on a map outspread— His fight for freedom—freedom far and near— And if a speck should rise, oh! hide it with a tear!

To speak his praises little need have we To tell the wonders wrought within these waves Enough, so well he taught us to be free, That even to him we could not kneel as slaves. Oh! let our tears be fast-destroying graves, Where doubt and difference may for ever lie, Buried and hid as in sepulchral caves; And let love's fond and reverential eye Alone behold the star new risen in the sky!

But can it be, that well-known form is stark? Can it be true, that burning heart is chill? Oh! can it be that twinkling eye is dark? And that great thunder voice is hush'd and still? Never again upon the famous hill Will he preside as monarch of the land, With myriad myriads subject to his will; Never again shall raise that powerful hand, To rouse, to warm, to check, to kindle, and command!

The twinkling eye, so full of changeful light, Is dimmed and darkened in a dread eclipse; The withering scowl, the smile so sunny bright, Alike have faded from his voiceless lips. The words of power, the mirthful, merry quips, The mighty onslaught, and the quick reply, The biting taunts that cut like stinging whips, The homely truth, the lessons grave and high, All, all are with the past, but cannot, shall not die!



A MYSTERY.

They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing, They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing; They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing, And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!

God of Justice! God of Power! Do we dream? Can it be? In this land, at this hour, With the blossom on the tree, In the gladsome month of May, When the young lambs play, When Nature looks around On her waking children now, The seed within the ground, The bud upon the bough? Is it right, is it fair, That we perish of despair In this land, on this soil, Where our destiny is set, Which we cultured with our toil, And watered with our sweat?

We have ploughed, we have sown But the crop was not our own; We have reaped, but harpy hands Swept the harvest from our lands; We were perishing for food, When, lo! in pitying mood, Our kindly rulers gave The fat fluid of the slave, While our corn filled the manger Of the war-horse of the stranger!

God of Mercy! must this last? Is this land preordained For the present and the past, And the future, to be chained, To be ravaged, to be drained, To be robbed, to be spoiled, To be hushed, to be whipt, Its soaring pinions clipt, And its every effort foiled?

Do our numbers multiply But to perish and to die? Is this all our destiny below, That our bodies, as they rot, May fertilise the spot Where the harvests of the stranger grow?

If this be, indeed, our fate, Far, far better now, though late, That we seek some other land and try some other zone; The coldest, bleakest shore Will surely yield us more Than the store-house of the stranger that we dare not call our own.

Kindly brothers of the West, Who from Liberty's full breast Have fed us, who are orphans, beneath a step-dame's frown, Behold our happy state, And weep your wretched fate That you share not in the splendours of our empire and our crown!

Kindly brothers of the East, Thou great tiara'd priest, Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth— Or thou who bear'st control Over golden Istambol, Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our dearth,

Turn here your wondering eyes, Call your wisest of the wise, Your Muftis and your ministers, your men of deepest lore; Let the sagest of your sages Ope our island's mystic pages, And explain unto your Highness the wonders of our shore.

A fruitful teeming soil, Where the patient peasants toil Beneath the summer's sun and the watery winter sky— Where they tend the golden grain Till it bends upon the plain, Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die.

Where they watch their flocks increase, And store the snowy fleece, Till they send it to their masters to be woven o'er the waves; Where, having sent their meat For the foreigner to eat, Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into their graves.

'Tis for this they are dying where the golden corn is growing, 'Tis for this they are dying where the crowded herds are lowing, 'Tis for this they are dying where the streams of life are flowing, And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing.



Sonnets.



AFTER READING J. T. GILBERT'S "THE HISTORY OF DUBLIN."

Long have I loved the beauty of thy streets, Fair Dublin: long, with unavailing vows, Sigh'd to all guardian deities who rouse The spirits of dead nations to new heats Of life and triumph:—vain the fond conceits, Nestling like eaves-warmed doves 'neath patriot brows! Vain as the "Hope," that from thy Custom-House Looks o'er the vacant bay in vain for fleets. Genius alone brings back the days of yore: Look! look, what life is in these quaint old shops— The loneliest lanes are rattling with the roar of coach and chair; fans, feathers, flambeaus, fops, Flutter and flicker through yon open door, Where Handel's hand moves the great organ stops.[107]

March 11th, 1856.

107. It is stated that the "Messiah" was first publicly performed in Dublin. See Gilbert's "History of Dublin," vol. i. p. 75, and Townsend's "Visit of Handel to Dublin," p. 64.



TO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

(Dedication of Calderon's "Chrysanthus and Daria.")

Pensive within the Coliseum's walls I stood with thee, O Poet of the West!— The day when each had been a welcome guest In San Clemente's venerable halls:— With what delight my memory now recalls That hour of hours, that flower of all the rest, When, with thy white beard falling on thy breast, That noble head, that well might serve as Paul's In some divinest vision of the saint By Raffael dreamed—I heard thee mourn the dead— The martyred host who fearless there, though faint, Walked the rough road that up to heaven's gate led: These were the pictures Calderon loved to paint In golden hues that here perchance have fled.

Yet take the colder copy from my hand, Not for its own but for the Master's sake; Take it, as thou, returning home, wilt take From that divinest soft Italian land Fixed shadows of the beautiful and grand In sunless pictures that the sun doth make— Reflections that may pleasant memories wake Of all that Raffael touched, or Angelo planned:— As these may keep what memory else might lose, So may this photograph of verse impart An image, though without the native hues Of Calderon's fire, and yet with Calderon's art, Of what thou lovest through a kindred muse That sings in heaven, yet nestles in the heart.

Dublin, August 24th, 1869.



TO KENELM HENRY DIGBY, AUTHOR OF "MORES CATHOLICI," "THE BROADSTONE OF HONOUR," "COMPITUM," ETC.

(On being presented by him with a copy, painted by himself, of a rare Portrait of Calderon.)

How can I thank thee for this gift of thine, Digby, the dawn and day-star of our age, Forerunner thou of many a saint and sage Who since have fought and conquer'd 'neath the Sign? Thou hast left, as in a sacred shrine— What shrine more pure than thy unspotted page?— The priceless relics, as a heritage, Of loftiest thoughts and lessons most divine. Poet and teacher of sublimest lore, Thou scornest not the painter's mimic skill, And thus hath come, obedient to thy will The outward form that Calderon's spirit wore. Ah! happy canvas that two glories fill, Where Calderon lives 'neath Digby's hand once more.

October 15th, 1878.



TO ETHNA.[108]

Ethna, to cull sweet flowers divinely fair, To seek for gems of such transparent light As would not be unworthy to unite Round thy fair brow, and through thy dark-brown hair, I would that I had wings to cleave the air, In search of some far region of delight, That back to thee from that adventurous flight, A glorious wreath my happy hands might bear; Soon would the sweetest Persian rose be thine— Soon would the glory of Golconda's mine Flash on thy forehead, like a star—ah! me, In place of these, I bring, with trembling hand, These fading wild flowers from our native land— These simple pebbles from the Irish Sea!

108. This sonnet to the poet's wife was prefixed as a dedication to his first volume of poems.



Underglimpses.



THE ARRAYING.

The blue-eyed maidens of the sea With trembling haste approach the lee, So small and smooth, they seem to be Not waves, but children of the waves, And as each link'ed circle laves The crescent marge of creek and bay, Their mingled voices all repeat— O lovely May! O long'd-for May! We come to bathe thy snow-white feet.

We bring thee treasures rich and rare, White pearl to deck thy golden hair, And coral beads, so smoothly fair And free from every flaw or speck; That they may lie upon thy neck, This sweetest day—this brightest day That ever on the green world shone— O lovely May, O long'd-for May! As if thy neck and thee were one.

We bring thee from our distant home Robes of the pure white-woven foam, And many a pure, transparent comb, Formed of the shells the tortoise plaits, By Babelmandeb's coral-straits; And amber vases, with inlay Of roseate pearl time never dims— O lovely May! O longed-for May! Wherein to lave thine ivory limbs.

We bring, as sandals for thy feet, Beam-broidered waves, like those that greet, With green and golden chrysolite, The setting sun's departing beams, When all the western water seems Like emeralds melted by his ray, So softly bright, so gently warm— O lovely May! O long'd-for May! That thou canst trust thy tender form.

And lo! the ladies of the hill, The rippling stream, and sparkling rill, With rival speed, and like good will, Come, bearing down the mountain's side The liquid crystals of the tide, In vitreous vessels clear as they, And cry, from each worn, winding path: O lovely May! O long'd-for May! We come to lead thee to the bath.

And we have fashioned, for thy sake, Mirrors more bright than art could make— The silvery-sheeted mountain lake Hangs in its carv'ed frame of rocks, Wherein to dress thy dripping locks, Or bind the dewy curls that stray Thy trembling breast meandering down— O lovely May! O long'd-for May! Within their self-woven crown.

Arise, O May! arise and see Thine emerald robes are held for thee By many a hundred-handed tree, Who lift from all the fields around The verdurous velvet from the ground, And then the spotless vestments lay, Smooth-folded o'er their outstretch'd arms— O lovely May! O long'd-for May! Wherein to fold thy virgin charms.

Thy robes are stiff with golden bees, Dotted with gems more bright than these, And scented by each perfumed breeze That, blown from heaven's re-open'd bowers, Become the souls of new-born flowers, Who thus their sacred birth betray; Heavenly thou art, nor less should be— O lovely May! O long'd-for May! The favour'd forms that wait on thee.

The moss to guard thy feet is spread, The wreaths are woven for thy head, The rosy curtains of thy bed Become transparent in the blaze Of the strong sun's resistless gaze: Then lady, make no more delay, The world still lives, though spring be dead— O lovely May! O long'd-for May! And thou must rule and reign instead.

The lady from her bed arose, Her bed the leaves the moss-bud blows Herself a lily in that rose; The maidens of the streams and sands Bathe some her feet and some her hands: And some the emerald robes display; Her dewy locks were then upcurled, And lovely May—the long'd-for May— Was crown'd the Queen of all the World!



THE SEARCH.

Let us seek the modest May, She is down in the glen, Hiding and abiding From the common gaze of men, Where the silver streamlet crosses O'er the smooth stones green with mosses, And glancing and dancing, Goes singing on its way— We shall find the modest maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the merry May, She is up on the hill, Laughing and quaffing From the fountain and the rill. Where the southern zephyr sprinkles, Like bright smiles on age's wrinkles, O'er the edges and ledges Of the rocks, the wild flowers gay— We shall find the merry maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the musing May, She is deep in the wood, Viewing and pursuing The beautiful and good. Where the grassy bank receding, Spreads its quiet couch for reading The pages of the sages, And the poet's lyric lay— We shall find the musing maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the mirthful May, She is out on the strand Racing and chasing The ripples o'er the sand. Where the warming waves discover All the treasures that they cover, Whitening and brightening The pebbles for her play— We shall find the mirthful maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the wandering May, She is off to the plain, Finding the winding Of the labyrinthine lane. She is passing through its mazes While the hawthorn, as it gazes With grief, lets its leaflets Whiten all the way— We shall find the wandering maiden there to-day.

Let us seek her in the ray— Let us track her by the rill— Wending ascending The slopings of the hill. Where the robin from the copses Breathes a love-note, and then drops his Trilling, till, willing, His mate responds his lay— We shall find the listening maiden there to-day.

But why seek her far away? Like a young bird in its nest, She is warming and forming Her dwelling in her breast. While the heart she doth repose on, Like the down the sunwind blows on, Gloweth, yet showeth The trembling of the ray— We shall find the happy maiden there to-day.



THE TIDINGS.

A bright beam came to my window frame, This sweet May morn, And it said to the cold, hard glass: Oh! let me pass, For I have good news to tell, The queen of the dewy dell, The beautiful May is born!

Warm with the race, through the open space, This sweet May morn, Came a soft wind out of the skies: And it said to my heart—Arise! Go forth from the winter's fire, For the child of thy long desire, The beautiful May is born!

The bright beam glanced and the soft wind danced, This sweet May morn, Over my cheek and over my eyes; And I said with a glad surprise: Oh! lead me forth, ye blessed twain, Over the hill and over the plain, Where the beautiful May is born.

Through the open door leaped the beam before This sweet May morn, And the soft wind floated along, Like a poet's song, Warm from his heart and fresh from his brain; And they led me over the mount and plain, To the beautiful May new-born.

My guide so bright and my guide so light, This sweet May morn, Led me along o'er the grassy ground, And I knew by each joyous sight and sound, The fields so green and the skies so gay, That heaven and earth kept holiday, That the beautiful May was born.

Out of the sea with their eyes of glee, This sweet May morn, Came the blue waves hastily on; And they murmuring cried—Thou happy one! Show us, O Earth! thy darling child, For we heard far out on the ocean wild, That the beautiful May was born.

The wing'ed flame to the rosebud came, This sweet May morn, And it said to the flower—Prepare! Lay thy nectarine bosom bare; Full soon, full soon, thou must rock to rest, And nurse and feed on thy glowing breast, The beautiful May now born.

The gladsome breeze through the trembling trees, This sweet May morn, Went joyously on from bough to bough; And it said to the red-branched plum—O thou, Cover with mimic pearls and gems, And with silver bells, thy coral stems, For the beautiful May now born.

Under the eaves and through the leaves This sweet May morn, The soft wind whispering flew: And it said to the listening birds—Oh, you, Sweet choristers of the skies, Awaken your tenderest lullabies, For the beautiful May now born.

The white cloud flew to the uttermost blue, This sweet May morn, It bore, like a gentle carrier-dove, The bless'ed news to the realms above; While its sister coo'd in the midst of the grove, And within my heart the spirit of love, That the beautiful May was born!



WELCOME, MAY.

Welcome, May! welcome, May! Thou hast been too long away, All the widow'd wintry hours Wept for thee, gentle May; But the fault was only ours— We were sad when thou wert gay!

Welcome, May! welcome, May! We are wiser far to-day— Fonder, too, than we were then. Gentle May! joyous May! Now that thou art come again, We perchance may make thee stay.

Welcome, May! welcome, May! Everything kept holiday Save the human heart alone. Mirthful May! gladsome May! We had cares and thou hadst none When thou camest last this way!

When thou camest last this way Blossoms bloomed on every spray, Buds on barren boughs were born— Fertile May! fruitful May! Like the rose upon the thorn Cannot grief awhile be gay?

'Tis not for the golden ray, Or the flowers that strew thy way, O immortal One! thou art Here to-day, gentle May— 'Tis to man's ungrateful heart That thy fairy footsteps stray.

'Tis to give that living clay Flowers that ne'er can fade away— Fond remembrances of bliss; And a foretaste, mystic May, Of the life that follows this, Full of joys that last alway!

Other months are cold and gray, Some are bright, but what are they? Earth may take the whole eleven— Hopeful May—happy May! Thine the borrowed month of heaven Cometh thence and points the way.