Wing'ed minstrels come and play Through the woods their roundelay; Who can tell but only thou, Spirit-ear'd, inspir'ed May, On the bud-embow'r'ed bough What the happy lyrists say?

Is the burden of their lay Love's desire, or Love's decay? Are there not some fond regrets Mix'd with these, divinest May, For the sun that never sets Down the everlasting day?

But upon thy wondrous way Mirth alone should dance and play— No regrets, how fond they be, E'er should wound the ear of May— Bow before her, flower and tree! Nor, my heart, do thou delay.



THE MEETING OF THE FLOWERS.

There is within this world of ours Full many a happy home and hearth; What time, the Saviour's blessed birth Makes glad the gloom of wintry hours.

When back from severed shore and shore, And over seas that vainly part, The scattered embers of the heart Glow round the parent hearth once more.

When those who now are anxious men, Forget their growing years and cares; Forget the time-flakes on their hairs, And laugh, light-hearted boys again.

When those who now are wedded wives, By children of their own embraced, Recall their early joys, and taste Anew the childhood of their lives.

And the old people—the good sire And kindly parent-mother—glow To feel their children's children throw Fresh warmth around the Christmas fire.

When in the sweet colloquial din, Unheard the sullen sleet-winds shout; And though the winter rage without, The social summer reigns within.

But in this wondrous world of ours Are other circling kindred chords, Binding poor harmless beasts and birds, And the fair family of flowers.

That family that meet to-day From many a foreign field and glen, For what is Christmas-tide with men Is with the flowers the time of May.

Back to the meadows of the West, Back to their natal fields they come; And as they reach their wished-for home, The Mother folds them to her breast.

And as she breathes, with balmy sighs, A fervent blessing over them, The tearful, glistening dews begem The parents' and the children's eyes.

She spreads a carpet for their feet, And mossy pillows for their heads, And curtains round their fairy beds With blossom-broidered branches sweet.

She feeds them with ambrosial food, And fills their cups with nectared wine; And all her choristers combine To sing their welcome from the wood:

And all that love can do is done, As shown to them in countless ways: She kindles to the brighter blaze The fireside of the world—the sun.

And with her own soft, trembling hands, In many a calm and cool retreat, She laves the dust that soils their feet In coming from the distant lands.

Or, leading down some sinuous path, Where the shy stream's encircling heights Shut out all prying eyes, invites Her lily daughters to the bath.

There, with a mother's harmless pride, Admires them sport the waves among: Now lay their ivory limbs along The buoyant bosom of the tide.

Now lift their marble shoulders o'er The rippling glass, or sink with fear, As if the wind approaching near Were some wild wooer from the shore.

Or else the parent turns to these, The younglings born beneath her eye, And hangs the baby-buds close by, In wind-rocked cradles from the trees.

And as the branches fall and rise, Each leafy-folded swathe expands: And now are spread their tiny hands, And now are seen their starry eyes.

But soon the feast concludes the day, And yonder in the sun-warmed dell, The happy circle meet to tell Their labours since the bygone May.

A bright-faced youth is first to raise His cheerful voice above the rest, Who bears upon his hardy breast A golden star with silver rays:[109]

Worthily won, for he had been A traveller in many a land, And with his slender staff in hand Had wandered over many a green:

Had seen the Shepherd Sun unpen Heaven's fleecy flocks, and let them stray Over the high-pealed Himalay, Till night shut up the fold again:

Had sat upon a mossy ledge, O'er Baiae in the morning's beams, Or where the sulphurous crater steams Had hung suspended from the edge:

Or following its devious course Up many a weary winding mile, Had tracked the long, mysterious Nile Even to its now no-fabled source:

Resting, perchance, as on he strode, To see the herded camels pass Upon the strips of wayside grass That line with green the dust-white road.

Had often closed his weary lids In oases that deck the waste, Or in the mighty shadows traced By the eternal pyramids.

Had slept within an Arab's tent, Pitched for the night beneath a palm, Or when was heard the vesper psalm, With the pale nun in worship bent:

Or on the moonlit fields of France, When happy village maidens trod Lightly the fresh and verdurous sod, There was he seen amid the dance:

Yielding with sympathizing stem To the quick feet that round him flew, Sprang from the ground as they would do, Or sank unto the earth with them:

Or, childlike, played with girl and boy By many a river's bank, and gave His floating body to the wave, Full many a time to give them joy.

These and a thousand other tales The traveller told, and welcome found; These were the simple tales went round The happy circles in the vales.

Keeping reserved with conscious pride His noblest act, his crowning feat, How he had led even Humboldt's feet Up Chimborazo's mighty side.

Guiding him through the trackless snow, By sheltered clefts of living soil, Sweet'ning the fearless traveller's toil, With memories of the world below.

Such was the hardy Daisy's tale, And then the maidens of the group— Lilies, whose languid heads down droop Over their pearl-white shoulders pale—

Told, when the genial glow of June Had passed, they sought still warmer climes And took beneath the verdurous limes Their sweet siesta through the noon:

And seeking still, with fond pursuit, The phantom Health, which lures and wiles Its followers to the shores and isles Of amber waves, and golden fruit.

There they had seen the orange grove Enwreath its gold with buds of white, As if themselves had taken flight, And settled on the boughs above.

There kiss'd by every rosy mouth And press'd to every gentle breast, These pallid daughters of the West Reigned in the sunshine of the South.

And thoughtful of the things divine, Were oft by many an altar found, Standing like white-robed angels round The precincts of some sacred shrine.

And Violets, with dark blue eyes, Told how they spent the winter time, In Andalusia's Eden clime, Or 'neath Italia's kindred skies.

Chiefly when evening's golden gloom Veil'd Rome's serenest ether soft, Bending in thoughtful musings oft, Above the lost Alastor's tomb;

Or the twin-poet's; he who sings "A thing of beauty never dies," Paying them back in fragrant sighs, The love they bore all loveliest things.

The flower[110] whose bronz'ed cheeks recalls The incessant beat of wind and sun, Spoke of the lore his search had won Upon Pompeii's rescued walls.

How, in his antiquarian march, He crossed the tomb-strewn plain of Rome, Sat on some prostrate plinth, or clomb The Coliseum's topmost arch.

And thence beheld in glad amaze What Nero's guilty eyes, aloof, Drank in from off his golden roof— The sun-bright city all ablaze:

Ablaze by day with solar fires— Ablaze by night with lunar beams, With lambent lustre on its streams, And golden glories round its spires!

Thence he beheld that wondrous dome, That, rising o'er the radiant town, Circles, with Art's eternal crown, The still imperial brow of Rome.

Nor was the Marigold remiss, But told how in her crown of gold She sat, like Persia's king of old, High o'er the shores of Salamis;

And saw, against the morning sky, The white-sailed fleets their wings display; And ere the tranquil close of day, Fade, like the Persian's from her eye.

Fleets, with their white flags all unfurl'd, Inscribed with "Commerce," and with "Peace," Bearing no threatened ill to Greece, But mutual good to all the world.

And various other flowers were seen: Cowslip and Oxlip, and the tall Tulip, whose grateful hearts recall The winter homes where they had been.

Some in the sunny vales, beneath The sheltering hills; and some, whose eyes Were gladdened by the southern skies, High up amid the blooming heath.

Meek, modest flowers, by poets loved, Sweet Pansies, with their dark eyes fringed With silken lashes finely tinged, That trembled if a leaf but moved:

And some in gardens where the grass Mossed o'er the green quadrangle's breast, There dwelt each flower, a welcome guest, In crystal palaces of glass:

Shown as a beauteous wonder there, By beauty's hands to beauty's eyes, Breathing what mimic art supplies, The genial glow of sun-warm air.

Nor were the absent ones forgot, Those whom a thousand cares detained, Those whom the links of duty chained Awhile from this their natal spot.

One, who is labour's useful tracks Is proudly eminent, who roams The providence of humble homes— The blue-eyed, fair-haired, friendly Flax:

Giving himself to cheer and light The cottier's else o'ershadowing murk, Filling his hand with cheerful work, And all his being with delight:

And one, the loveliest and the last, For whom they waited day by day, All through the merry month of May, Till one-and-thirty days had passed.

And when, at length, the longed-for noon Of night arched o'er th' expectant green The Rose, their sister and their queen— Came on the joyous wings of June:

And when was heard the gladsome sound, And when was breath'd her beauteous name, Unnumbered buds, like lamps of flame, Gleamed from the hedges all around:

Where she had been, the distant clime, The orient realm their sceptre sways, The poet's pen may paint and praise Hereafter in his simple rhyme.

109. The Daisy.

110. The Wallflower.



THE PROGRESS OF THE ROSE.

The days of old, the good old days, Whose misty memories haunt us still, Demand alike our blame and praise, And claim their shares of good and ill.

They had strong faith in things unseen, But stronger in the things they saw Revenge for Mercy's pitying mien, And lordly Right for equal Law.

'Tis true the cloisters all throughout The valleys rais'd their peaceful towers, And their sweet bells ne'er wearied out In telling of the tranquil hours.

But from the craggy hills above, A shadow darken'd o'er the sward; For there—a vulture to this dove— Hung the rude fortress of the lord;

Whence oft the ravening bird of prey Descending, to his eyry wild Bore, with exulting cries, away The powerless serf's dishonour'd child.

Then Safety lit with partial beams But the high-castled peaks of Force, And Polity revers'd its streams, And bade them flow but for their Source.

That Source from which, meandering down, A thousand streamlets circle now; For then the monarch's glorious crown But girt the most rapacious brow.

But individual Force is dead, And link'd Opinion late takes birth; And now a woman's gentle head Supports the mightiest crown on earth.

A pleasing type of all the change Permitted to our eyes to see, When she herself is free to range Throughout the realm her rule makes free.

Not prison'd in a golden cage, To sigh or sing her lonely state, A show for youth or doating age, With idiot eyes to contemplate.

But when the season sends a thrill To ev'ry heart that lives and moves, She seeks the freedom of the hill, Or shelter of the noontide groves.

There, happy with her chosen mate, And circled by her chirping brood, Forgets the pain of being great In the mere bliss of being good.

And thus the festive summer yields No sight more happy, none so gay, As when amid her subject-fields She wanders on from day to day.

Resembling her, whom proud and fond, The bard hath sung of—she of old, Who bore upon her snow-white wand, All Erin through, the ring of gold.

Thus, from her castles coming forth, She wanders many a summer hour, Bearing the ring of private worth Upon the silver wand of Power.

Thus musing, while around me flew Sweet airs from fancy's amaranth bowers, Methought, what this fair queen doth do, Hath yearly done the queen of flowers.

The beauteous queen of all the flowers, Whose faintest sigh is like a spell, Was born in Eden's sinless bowers Long ere our primal parents fell.

There in a perfect form she grew, Nor felt decay, nor tasted death; Heaven was reflected in her hue, And heaven's own odours filled her breath.

And ere the angel of the sword Drove thence the founders of our race, They knelt before him, and implor'd Some relic of that radiant place:

Some relic that, while time would last, Should make men weep their fatal sin; Proof of the glory that was past, And type of that they yet might win.

The angel turn'd, and ere his hands The gates of bliss for ever close, Pluck'd from the fairest tree that stands Within heaven's walls—the peerless rose.

And as he gave it unto them, Let fall a tear upon its leaves— The same celestial liquid gem We oft perceive on dewy eves.

Grateful the hapless twain went forth, The golden portals backward whirl'd, Then first they felt the biting north, And all the rigour of this world.

Then first the dreadful curse had power To chill the life-streams at their source, Till e'en the sap within the flower Grew curdled in its upward course.

They twin'd their trembling hands across Their trembling breasts against the drift, Then sought some little mound of moss Wherein to lay their precious gift.

Some little soft and mossy mound, Wherein the flower might rest till morn; In vain! God's curse was on the ground, For through the moss out gleam'd the thorn!

Out gleam'd the fork'ed plant, as if The serpent tempter, in his rage, Had put his tongue in every leaf To mock them through their pilgrimage.

They did their best; their hands eras'd The thorns of greater strength and size; Then 'mid the softer moss they plac'd The exiled flower of paradise.

The plant took root; the beams and showers Came kindly, and its fair head rear'd; But lo! around its heaven of flowers The thorns and moss of earth appear'd.

Type of the greater change that then Upon our hapless nature fell, When the degenerate hearts of men Bore sin and all the thorns of hell.

Happy, indeed, and sweet our pain, However torn, however tost, If, like the rose, our hearts retain Some vestige of the heaven we've lost.

Where she upon this colder sphere Found shelter first, she there abode; Her native bowers, unseen were near, And near her still Euphrates flowed—

Brilliantly flow'd; but, ah! how dim, Compar'd to what its light had been;— As if the fiery cherubim Let pass the tide, but kept its sheen.

At first she liv'd and reigned alone, No lily-maidens yet had birth; No turban'd tulips round her throne Bow'd with their foreheads to the earth.

No rival sisters had she yet— She with the snowy forehead fringed With blushes; nor the sweet brunette Whose cheek the yellow sun has ting'd.

Nor all the harbingers of May, Nor all the clustering joys of June: Uncarpeted the bare earth lay, Unhung the branches' gay festoon.

But Nature came in kindly mood, And gave her kindred of her own, Knowing full well it is not good For man or flower to be alone.

Long in her happy court she dwelt, In floral games and feasts of mirth, Until her heart kind wishes felt To share her joy with all the earth.

To go from longing land to land A stateless queen, a welcome guest, O'er hill and vale, by sea and strand, From North to South, and East to West.

And thus it is that every year, Ere Autumn dons his russet robe, She calls her unseen charioteer, And makes her progress through the globe.

First, sharing in the month-long feast— "The Feast of Roses"—in whose light And grateful joy, the first and least Of all her subjects reunite.

She sends her heralds on before: The bee rings out his bugle bold, The daisy spreads her marbled floor, The buttercup her cloth of gold.

The lark leaps up into the sky, To watch her coming from afar; The larger moon descends more nigh, More lingering lags the morning star.

From out the villages and towns, From all of mankind's mix'd abodes, The people, by the lawns and downs, Go meet her on the winding roads.

And some would bear her in their hands, And some would press her to their breast, And some would worship where she stands, And some would claim her as their guest.

Her gracious smile dispels the gloom Of many a love-sick girl and boy; Her very presence in a room Doth fill the languid air with joy.

Her breath is like a fragrant tune, She is the soul of every spot; Gives nature to the rich saloon, And splendour to the peasant's cot.

Her mission is to calm and soothe, And purely glad life's every stage; Her garlands grace the brow of youth, And hide the hollow lines of age.

But to the poet she belongs, By immemorial ties of love;— Herself a folded book of songs, Dropp'd from the angel's hands above.

Then come and make his heart thy home, For thee it opes, for thee it glows;— Type of ideal beauty, come! Wonder of Nature! queenly Rose!



THE BATH OF THE STREAMS.

Down unto the ocean, Trembling with emotion, Panting at the notion, See the rivers run— In the golden weather, Tripping o'er the heather, Laughing all together— Madcaps every one.

Like a troop of girls In their loosen'd curls, See, the concourse whirls Onward wild with glee; List their tuneful tattle, Hear their pretty prattle, How they'll love to battle With the assailing sea.

See, the winds pursue them, See, the willows woo them See, the lakelets view them Wistfully afar, With a wistful wonder Down the green slopes under, Wishing, too, to thunder O'er their prison bar.

Wishing, too, to wander By the sea-waves yonder, There awhile to squander All their silvery stores, There awhile forgetting All their vain regretting When their foam went fretting Round the rippling shores.

Round the rocky region, Whence their prison'd legion, Oft and oft besieging, Vainly sought to break, Vainly sought to throw them O'er the vales below them, Through the clefts that show them Paths they dare not take.

But the swift streams speed them In the might of freedom, Down the paths that lead them Joyously along. Blinding green recesses With their floating tresses, Charming wildernesses With their murmuring song.

Now the streams are gliding With a sweet abiding— Now the streams are hiding 'Mid the whispering reeds— Now the streams outglancing With a shy advancing Naiad-like go dancing Down the golden meads.

Down the golden meadows, Chasing their own shadows— Down the golden meadows, Playing as they run: Playing with the sedges, By the water's edges, Leaping o'er the ledges, Glist'ning in the sun:

Streams and streamlets blending, Each on each attending, All together wending, Seek the silver sands; Like the sisters holding With a fond enfolding— Like to sisters holding One another's hands.

Now with foreheads blushing With a rapturous flushing— Now the streams are rushing In among the waves. Now in shy confusion, With a pale suffusion, Seek the wild seclusion Of sequestered caves.

All the summer hours Hiding in the bowers, Scattering silver showers Out upon the strand; O'er the pebbles crashing, Through the ripples splashing, Liquid pearl-wreaths dashing From each other's hand.

By yon mossy boulder, See an ivory shoulder, Dazzling the beholder, Rises o'er the blue; But a moment's thinking, Sends the Naiad sinking, With a modest shrinking, From the gazer's view.

Now the wave compresses All their golden tresses— Now their sea-green dresses Float them o'er the tide; Now with elf-locks dripping From the brine they're sipping, With a fairy tripping, Down the green waves glide.

Some that scarce have tarried By the shore are carried Sea-ward to be married To the glad gods there: Triton's horn is playing, Neptune's steeds are neighing, Restless with delaying For a bride so fair.

See at first the river How its pale lips quiver, How its white waves shiver With a fond unrest; List how low it sigheth, See how swift it flieth, Till at length it lieth On the ocean's breast.

Such is Youth's admiring, Such is Love's desiring, Such is Hope's aspiring For the higher goal; Such is man's condition Till in heaven's fruition Ends the mystic mission Of the eternal soul.



THE FLOWERS OF THE TROPICS.

"C'est ainsi qu'elle nature a mis, entre les tropiques, la plupart des fleurs apparentes sur des arbres. J'y en ai vu bien peu dans les prairies, mais beaucoup dans les forets. Dans ces pays, il faut lever les yeux en haut pour y voir des fleurs; dans le notre, il faut les baisser a terre."—SAINT PIERRE, "Etudes de la Nature."

In the soft sunny regions that circle the waist Of the globe with a girdle of topaz and gold, Which heave with the throbbings of life where they're placed, And glow with the fire of the heart they enfold; Where to live, where to breathe, seems a paradise dream— A dream of some world more elysian than this— Where, if Death and if Sin were away, it would seem Not the foretaste alone, but the fulness of bliss.

Where all that can gladden the sense and the sight, Fresh fruitage as cool and as crimson as even; Where the richness and rankness of Nature unite To build the frail walls of the Sybarite's heaven. But, ah! should the heart feel the desolate dearth Of some purer enjoyment to speed the bright hours, In vain through the leafy luxuriance of earth Looks the languid-lit eye for the freshness of flowers.

No, its glance must be turned from the earth to the sky, From the clay-rooted grass to the heaven-branching trees; And there, oh! enchantment for soul and for eye, Hang blossoms so pure that an angel might seize. Thus, when pleasure begins from its sweetness to cloy, And the warm heart grows rank like a soil over ripe, We must turn from the earth for some promise of joy, And look up to heaven for a holier type.

In the climes of the North, which alternately shine, Now warm with the sunbeam, now white with the snow, And which, like the breast of the earth they entwine. Grow chill with its chillness, or glow with its glow, In those climes where the soul, on more vigorous wing, Rises soaring to heaven in its rapturous flight, And, led ever on by the radiance they fling, Tracketh star after star through infinitude's night.

How oft doth the seer from his watch-tower on high. Scan the depths of the heavens with his wonderful glass; And, like Adam of old, when Earth's creatures went by, Name the orbs and the sun-lighted spheres as they pass. How often, when drooping, and weary, and worn, With fire-throbbing temples and star-dazzled eyes, Does he turn from his glass at the breaking of morn, And exchanges for flowers all the wealth of the skies?

Ah! thus should we mingle the far and the near, And, while striving to pierce what the Godhead conceals, From the far heights of Science look down with a fear To the lowliest truths the same Godhead reveals. When the rich fruit of Joy glads the heart and the mouth, Or the bold wing of Thought leads the daring soul forth; Let us proudly look up as for flowers of the south, Let us humbly look down as for flowers of the north.



THE YEAR-KING.

It is the last of all the days, The day on which the Old Year dies. Ah! yes, the fated hour is near; I see upon his snow-white bier Outstretched the weary wanderer lies, And mark his dying gaze.

A thousand visions dark and fair, Crowd on the old man's fading sight; A thousand mingled memories throng The old man's heart, still green and strong; The heritage of wrong and right He leaves unto his heir.

He thinks upon his budding hopes, The day he stood the world's young king, Upon his coronation morn, When diamonds hung on every thorn, And peeped the pearl flowers of the spring Adown the emerald slopes.

He thinks upon his youthful pride, When in his ermined cloak of snow, Upon his war-horse, stout and staunch— The cataract-crested avalanche— He thundered on the rocks below, With his warriors at his side.

From rock to rock, through cloven scalp, By rivers rushing to the sea, With thunderous sound his army wound The heaven supporting hills around; Like that the Man of Destiny Led down the astonished Alp.

The bugles of the blast rang out, The banners of the lightning swung, The icy spear-points of the pine Bristled along the advancing line, And as the winds' 'reveille' rung, Heavens! how the hills did shout.

Adown each slippery precipice Rattled the loosen'd rocks, like balls Shot from his booming thunder guns, Whose smoke, effacing stars and suns, Darkens the stifled heaven, and falls Far off in arrowy showers of ice.

Ah! yes, he was a mighty king, A mighty king, full flushed with youth; He cared not then what ruin lay Upon his desolating way; Not his the cause of God or Truth, But the brute lust of conquering.

Nought could resist his mighty will, The green grass withered where he stood; His ruthless hands were prompt to seize Upon the tresses of the trees; Then shrieked the maidens of the wood, And the saplings of the hill.

Nought could resist his mighty will; For in his ranks rode spectral Death; The old expired through very fear; And pined the young, when he came near; The faintest flutter of his breath Was sharp enough to kill.

Nought could resist his mighty will; The flowers fell dead beneath his tread; The streams of life, that through the plains Throb night and day through crystal veins, With feverish pulses frighten'd fled, Or curdled, and grew still.

Nought could resist his mighty will; On rafts of ice, blue-hued, like steel, He crossed the broadest rivers o'er Ah! me, and then was heard no more The murmur of the peaceful wheel That turned the peasant's mill.

But why the evil that attends On War recall to further view? Accurs'ed War!—the world too well Knows what thou art—thou fiend of hell! The heartless havoc of a few For their own selfish ends!

Soon, soon the youthful conqueror Felt moved, and bade the horrors cease; Nature resumed its ancient sway, Warm tears rolled down the cheeks of Day, And Spring, the harbinger of peace Proclaimed the fight was o'er.

Oh! what a change came o'er the world; The winds, that cut like naked swords, Shed balm upon the wounds they made; And they who came the first to aid The foray of grim Winter's hordes The flag of truce unfurled.

Oh! how the song of joy, the sound Of rapture thrills the leaguered camps The tinkling showers like cymbals clash Upon the late leaves of the ash, And blossoms hang like festal lamps On all the trees around.

And there is sunshine, sent to strew God's cloth of gold, whereon may dance, To music that harmonious moves, The link'ed Graces and the Loves, Making reality romance, And rare romance even more than true.

The fields laughed out in dimpling flowers, The streams' blue eyes flashed bright with smiles; The pale-faced clouds turned rosy-red, As they looked down from overhead, Then fled o'er continents and isles, To shed their happy tears in showers.

The youthful monarch's heart grew light To find what joy good deeds can shed; To nurse the orphan buds that bent Over each turf-piled monument, Wherein the parent flowers lay dead Who perished in that fight.

And as he roamed from day to day, Atoning thus to flower and tree, Flinging his lavish gold around In countless yellow flowers, he found, By gladsome-weeping April's knee, The modest maiden May.

Oh! she was young as angels are, Ere the eternal youth they lead Gives any clue to tell the hours They've spent in heaven's elysian bowers; Ere God before their eyes decreed The birth-day of some beauteous star.

Oh! she was fair as are the leaves Of pale white roses, when the light Of sunset, through some trembling bough, Kisses the queen-flower's blushing brow, Nor leaves it red nor marble white, But rosy-pale, like April eves.

Her eyes were like forget-me-nots, Dropped in the silvery snowdrop's cup, Or on the folded myrtle buds, The azure violet of the woods; Just as the thirsty sun drinks up The dewy diamonds on the plots.

And her sweet breath was like the sighs Breathed by a babe of youth and love; When all the fragrance of the south From the cleft cherry of its mouth, Meets the fond lips that from above Stoop to caress its slumbering eyes.

He took the maiden by the hand, And led her in her simple gown Unto a hamlet's peaceful scene, Upraised her standard on the green; And crowned her with a rosy crown The beauteous Queen of all the land.

And happy was the maiden's reign— For peace, and mirth, and twin-born love Came forth from out men's hearts that day, Their gladsome fealty to pay; And there was music in the grove, And dancing on the plain.

And Labour carolled at his task, Like the blithe bird that sings and builds His happy household 'mid the leaves; And now the fibrous twig he weaves, And now he sings to her who gilds The sole horizon he doth ask.

And Sickness half forgot its pain, And Sorrow half forgot its grief; And Eld forgot that it was old, As if to show the age of gold Was not the poet's fond belief, But every year comes back again.

The Year-King passed along his way: Rejoiced, rewarded, and content; He passed to distant lands and new; For other tasks he had to do; But wheresoe'er the wanderer went, He ne'er forgot his darling May.

He sent her stems of living gold From the rich plains of western lands, And purple-gushing grapes from vines Born of the amorous sun that shines Where Tagus rolls its golden sands, Or Guadalete old.

And citrons from Firenze's fields, And golden apples from the isles That gladden the bright southern seas, True home of the Hesperides: Which now no dragon guards, but smiles, The bounteous mother, as she yields.

And then the king grew old like Lear— His blood waxed chill, his beard grew gray; He changed his sceptre for a staff: And as the thoughtless children laugh To see him totter on his way, He knew his destined hour was near.

And soon it came; and here he strives, Outstretched upon his snow-white bier, To reconcile the dread account— How stands the balance, what the amount; As we shall do with trembling fear When our last hour arrives.

Come, let us kneel around his bed, And pray unto his God and ours For mercy on his servant here: Oh, God be with the dying year! And God be with the happy hours That died before their sire lay dead!

And as the bells commingling ring The New Year in, the Old Year out, Muffled and sad, and now in peals With which the quivering belfry reels, Grateful and hopeful be the shout, The King is dead!—Long live the King!



THE AWAKING.

A lady came to a snow-white bier, Where a youth lay pale and dead: She took the veil from her widowed head, And, bending low, in his ear she said: "Awaken! for I am here."

She pass'd with a smile to a wild wood near, Where the boughs were barren and bare; She tapp'd on the bark with her fingers fair, And call'd to the leaves that were buried there: "Awaken! for I am here."

The birds beheld her without a fear, As she walk'd through the dank-moss'd dells; She breathed on their downy citadels, And whisper'd the young in their ivory shells: "Awaken! for I am here."

On the graves of the flowers she dropp'd a tear, But with hope and with joy, like us; And even as the Lord to Lazarus, She call'd to the slumbering sweet flowers thus: "Awaken! for I am here."

To the lilies that lay in the silver mere, To the reeds by the golden pond; To the moss by the rounded marge beyond, She spoke with her voice so soft and fond: "Awaken! for I am here."

The violet peep'd, with its blue eye clear, From under its own gravestone; For the blessed tidings around had flown, And before she spoke the impulse was known: "Awaken! for I am here."

The pale grass lay with its long looks sere On the breast of the open plain; She loosened the matted hair of the slain, And cried, as she filled each juicy vein: "Awaken! for I am here."

The rush rose up with its pointed spear The flag, with its falchion broad; The dock uplifted its shield unawed, As her voice rung over the quickening sod: "Awaken! for I am here."

The red blood ran through the clover near, And the heath on the hills o'erhead; The daisy's fingers were tipp'd with red, As she started to life, when the lady said: "Awaken! for I am here."

And the young Year rose from his snow-white bier, And the flowers from their green retreat; And they came and knelt at the lady's feet, Saying all, with their mingled voices sweet: "O lady! behold us here."



THE RESURRECTION.

The day of wintry wrath is o'er, The whirlwind and the storm have pass'd, The whiten'd ashes of the snow Enwrap the ruined world no more; Nor keenly from the orient blow The venom'd hissings of the blast.

The frozen tear-drops of despair Have melted from the trembling thorn; Hope plumes unseen her radiant wing, And lo! amid the expectant air, The trumpet of the angel Spring Proclaims the resurrection morn.

Oh! what a wave of gladsome sound Runs rippling round the shores of space, As the requicken'd earth upheaves The swelling bosom of the ground, And Death's cold pallor, startled, leaves The deepening roses of her face.

Up from their graves the dead arise— The dead and buried flowers of spring;— Up from their graves in glad amaze, Once more to view the long-lost skies, Resplendent with the dazzling rays Of their great coming Lord and King.

And lo! even like that mightiest one, In the world's last and awful hour, Surrounded by the starry seven, So comes God's greatest work, the sun, Upborne upon the clouds of heaven, In pomp, and majesty, and power.

The virgin snowdrop bends its head Above its grave in grateful prayer; The daisy lifts its radiant brow, With a saint's glory round it shed; The violet's worth, unhidden now, Is wafted wide by every air.

The parent stem reclasps once more Its long-lost severed buds and leaves; Once more the tender tendrils twine Around the forms they clasped of yore The very rain is now a sign Great Nature's heart no longer grieves.

And now the judgment-hour arrives, And now their final doom they know; No dreadful doom is theirs whose birth Was not more stainless than their lives; 'Tis Goodness calls them from the earth, And Mercy tells them where to go.

Some of them fly with glad accord, Obedient to the high behest, To worship with their fragrant breath Around the altars of the Lord; And some, from nothingness and death, Pass to the heaven of beauty's breast.

Oh, let the simple fancy be Prophetic of our final doom; Grant us, O Lord, when from the sod Thou deign'st to call us too, that we Pass to the bosom of our God From the dark nothing of the tomb!



THE FIRST OF THE ANGELS.

Hush! hush! through the azure expanse of the sky Comes a low, gentle sound, 'twixt a laugh and a sigh; And I rise from my writing, and look up on high, And I kneel, for the first of God's angels is nigh!

Oh, how to describe what my rapt eyes descry! For the blue of the sky is the blue of his eye; And the white clouds, whose whiteness the snowflakes outvie, Are the luminous pinions on which he doth fly!

And his garments of gold gleam at times like the pyre Of the west, when the sun in a blaze doth expire; Now tinged like the orange, now flaming with fire! Half the crimson of roses and purple of Tyre.

And his voice, on whose accents the angels have hung, He himself a bright angel, immortal and young, Scatters melody sweeter the green buds among Than the poet e'er wrote, or the nightingale sung.

It comes on the balm-bearing breath of the breeze, And the odours that later will gladden the bees, With a life and a freshness united to these, From the rippling of waters and rustling of trees.

Like a swan to its young o'er the glass of a pond, So to earth comes the angel, as graceful and fond; While a bright beam of sunshine—his magical wand, Strikes the fields at my feet, and the mountains beyond.

They waken—they start into life at a bound— Flowers climb the tall hillocks, and cover the ground With a nimbus of glory the mountains are crown'd, As the rivulets rush to the ocean profound.

There is life on the earth, there is calm on the sea, And the rough waves are smoothed, and the frozen are free; And they gambol and ramble like boys, in their glee, Round the shell-shining strand or the grass-bearing lea.

There is love for the young, there is life for the old, And wealth for the needy, and heat for the cold; For the dew scatters, nightly, its diamonds untold, And the snowdrop its silver, the crocus its gold!

God!—whose goodness and greatness we bless and adore— Be Thou praised for this angel—the first of the four— To whose charge Thou has given the world's uttermost shore, To guide it, and guard it, till time is no more!



SPIRIT VOICES.

There are voices, spirit voices, Sweetly sounding everywhere, At whose coming earth rejoices, And the echoing realms of air, And their joy and jubilation Pierce the near and reach the far, From the rapid world's gyration To the twinkling of the star.

One, a potent voice uplifting, Stops the white cloud on its way, As it drives with driftless drifting O'er the vacant vault of day, And in sounds of soft upbraiding Calls it down the void inane To the gilding and the shading Of the mountain and the plain.

Airy offspring of the fountains, To thy destined duty sail, Seek it on the proudest mountains, Seek it in the humblest vale; Howsoever high thou fliest, How so deep it bids thee go, Be a beacon to the highest And a blessing to the low.

When the sad earth, broken-hearted, Hath not even a tear to shed, And her very soul seems parted For her children lying dead, Send the streams with warmer pulses Through that frozen fount of fears, And the sorrow that convulses, Soothe and soften down to tears.

Bear the sunshine and the shadow, Bear the rain-drop and the snow, Bear the night-dew to the meadow, And to hope the promised bow, Bear the moon, a moving mirror For her angel face and form, Bear to guilt the flashing terror Of the lightning and the storm.

When thou thus hast done thy duty On the earth and o'er the sea, Bearing many a beam of beauty, Ever bettering what must be, Thus reflecting heaven's pure splendour And concealing ruined clay, Up to God thy spirit render, And dissolving pass away.

And with fond solicitation, Speaks another to the streams— Leave your airy isolation, Quit the cloudy land of dreams, Break the lonely peak's attraction, Burst the solemn, silent glen, Seek the living world of action And the busy haunts of men.

Turn the mill-wheel with thy fingers, Turn the steam-wheel with thy breath, With thy tide that never lingers Save the dying fields from death; Let the swiftness of thy currents Bear to man the freight-fill'd ship, And the crystal of thy torrents Bring refreshment to his lip.

And when thou, O rapid river, Thy eternal home dost seek, When no more the willows quiver But to touch thy passing cheek, When the groves no longer greet thee And the shore no longer kiss, Let infinitude come meet thee On the verge of the abyss.

Other voices seek to win us— Low, suggestive, like the rest— But the sweetest is within us In the stillness of the breast; Be it ours, with fond desiring, The same harvest to produce, As the cloud in its aspiring And the river in its use.



Centenary Odes.



O'CONNELL. AUGUST 6TH, 1875.

Harp of my native land That lived anew 'neath Carolan's master hand; Harp on whose electric chords, The minstrel Moore's melodious words, Each word a bird that sings, Borne as if on Ariel's wings, Touched every tender soul From listening pole to pole. Sweet harp, awake once more: What, though a ruder hand disturbs thy rest, A theme so high Will its own worth supply. As finest gold is ever moulded best: Or as a cannon on some festive day, When sea and sky, when winds and waves rejoice, Out-booms with thunderous voice, Bids echo speak, and all the hills obey—

So let the verse in echoing accents ring, So proudly sing, With intermittent wail, The nation's dead, but sceptred King, The glory of the Gael.

1775.

Six hundred stormy years have flown, Since Erin fought to hold her own, To hold her homes, her altars free, Within her wall of circling sea. No year of all those years had fled, No day had dawned that was not red, (Oft shed by fratricidal hand), With the best blood of all the land. And now, at last, the fight seemed o'er, The sound of battle pealed no more; Abject the prostrate people lay, Nor dared to hope a better day; An icy chill, a fatal frost, Left them with all but honour lost, Left them with only trust in God, The lands were gone their fathers owned; Poor pariahs on their native sod. Their faith was banned, their prophets stoned; Their temples crowning every height, Now echoed with an alien rite, Or silent lay each mouldering pile, With shattered cross and ruined aisle. Letters denied, forbade to pray, And white-winged commerce scared away: Ah, what can rouse the dormant life That still survives the stormier strife? What potent charm can once again Relift the cross, rebuild the fane? Free learning from felonious chains, And give to youth immortal gains? What signal mercy from on high?— Hush! hark! I hear an infant's cry, The answer of a new-born child, From Iveragh's far mountain wild.

Yes, 'tis the cry of a child, feeble and faint in the night, But soon to thunder in tones that will rouse both tyrants and slaves. Yes, 'tis the sob of a stream just awake in its source on the height, But soon to spread as a sea, and rush with the roaring of waves.

Yes, 'tis the cry of a child affection hastens to still, But what shall silence ere long the victor voice of the man? Easy it is for a branch to bar the flow of the rill, But all the forest would fail where raging the torrent once ran.

And soon the torrent will run, and the pent-up waters o'erflow, For the child has risen to a man, and a shout replaces the cry; And a voice rings out through the world, so wing'ed with Erin's woe, That charmed are the nations to listen, and the Destinies to reply.

Boyhood had passed away from that child, predestined by fate To dry the eyes of his mother, to end the worst of her ills, And the terrible record of wrong, and the annals of hell and hate, Had gathered into his breast like a lake in the heart of the hills.

Brooding over the past, he found himself but a slave, With manacles forged on his mind, and fetters on every limb; The land that was life to others, to him was only a grave, And however the race he ran no victor wreath was for him.

The fane of learning was closed, shut out was the light of day, No ray from the sun of science, no brightness from Greece or Rome, And those who hungered for knowledge, like him, had to fly away, Where bountiful France threw wide the gates that were shut at home.

And there he happily learned a lore far better than books, A lesson he taught for ever, and thundered over the land, That Liberty's self is a terror, how lovely may be her looks, If religion is not in her heart, and reverence guide not her hand.

The steps of honour were barred: it was not for him to climb, No glorious goal in the future, no prize for the labour of life, And the fate of him and his people seemed fixed for all coming time To hew the wood of the helot and draw the waters of strife.

But the glorious youth returning Back from France the fair and free, Rage within his bosom burning, Such a servile sight to see, Vowed to heaven it should not be. "No!" the youthful champion cried, "Mother Ireland, widowed bride, If thy freedom can be won By the service of a son, Then, behold that son in me. I will give thee every hour, Every day shall be thy dower, In the splendour of the light, In the watches of the night, In the shine and in the shower, I shall work but for thy right."

1782-1800.

A dazzling gleam of evanescent glory, Had passed away, and all was dark once more, One golden page had lit the mournful story, Which ruthless hands with envious rage out-tore.

One glorious sun-burst, radiant and far-reaching, Had pierced the cloudy veil dark ages wove, When full-armed Freedom rose from Grattan's teaching, As sprang Minerva from the brain of Jove.

Oh! in the transient light that had outbroken, How all the land with quickening fire was lit! What golden words of deathless speech were spoken, What lightning flashes of immortal wit!

Letters and arts revived beneath its beaming, Commerce and Hope outspread their swelling sails, And with "Free Trade" upon their standard gleaming, Now feared no foes and dared adventurous gales.

Across the stream the graceful arch extended, Above the pile the rounded dome arose, The soaring spire to heaven's high vault ascended, The loom hummed loud as bees at evening's close.

And yet 'mid all this hope and animation, The people still lay bound in bigot chains, Freedom that gave some slight alleviation, Could dare no panacea for their pains.

Yet faithful to their country's quick uprising, Like some fair island from volcanic waves, They shared the triumph though their claims despising, And hailed the freedom though themselves were slaves.

But soon had come the final compensation, Soon would the land one brotherhood have known, Had not some spell of hellish incantation The new-formed fane of Freedom overthrown.

In one brief hour the fair mirage had faded, No isle of flowers lay glad on ocean's green, But in its stead, deserted and degraded, The barren strand of Slavery's shore was seen.

1800-1829.

Yet! 'twas on that barren strand Sing his praise throughout the world! Yet, 'twas on that barren strand, O'er a cowed and broken band, That his solitary hand Freedom's flag unfurled. Yet! 'twas there in Freedom's cause, Freedom from unequal laws, Freedom for each creed and class, For humanity's whole mass, That his voice outrang;— And the nation at a bound, Stirred by the inspiring sound, To his side up-sprang.

Then the mighty work began, Then the war of thirty years— Peaceful war, when words were spears, And religion led the van. When O'Connell's voice of power, Day by day and hour by hour, Raining down its iron shower, Laid oppression low, Till at length the war was o'er, And Napoleon's conqueror, Yielded to a mightier foe.

1829.

Into the senate swept the mighty chief, Like some great ocean wave across the bar Of intercepting rock, whose jagged reef But frets the victor whom it cannot mar. Into the senate his triumphal car Rushed like a conqueror's through the broken gates Of some fallen city, whose defenders are Powerful no longer to resist the fates, But yield at last to him whom wondering Fame awaits.

And as "sweet foreign Spenser" might have sung, Yoked to the car two wing'ed steeds were seen, With eyes of fire and flashing hoofs outflung, As if Apollo's coursers they had been. These were quick Thought and Eloquence, I ween, Bounding together with impetuous speed, While overhead there waved a flag of green, Which seemed to urge still more each flying steed, Until they reached the goal the hero had decreed.

There at his feet a captive wretch lay bound, Hideous, deformed, of baleful countenance, Whom as his blood-shot eye-balls glared around, As if to kill with their malignant glance, I knew to be the fiend Intolerance. But now no longer had he power to slay, For Freedom touched him with Ithuriel's lance, His horrid form revealing by its ray, And showed how foul a fiend the world could once obey.

Then followed after him a numerous train, Each bearing trophies of the field he won: Some the white wand, and some the civic chain, Its golden letters glistening in the sun; Some—for the reign of justice had begun— The ermine robes that soon would be the prize Of spotless lives that all pollution shun, And some in mitred pomp, with upturned eyes, And grateful hearts invoked a blessing from the skies.

1843-1847.

A glorious triumph! a deathless deed!— Shall the hero rest and his work half done? Is it enough to enfranchise a creed, When a nation's freedom may yet be won? Is it enough to hang on the wall The broken links of the Catholic chain, When now one mighty struggle for ALL May quicken the life in the land again?—

May quicken the life, for the land lay dead; No central fire was a heart in its breast,— No throbbing veins, with the life-blood red, Ran out like rivers to east or west: Its soul was gone, and had left it clay— Dull clay to grow but the grass and the root; But harvests for Men, ah! where were they?— And where was the tree for Liberty's fruit?

Never till then, in victory's hour, Had a conqueror felt a joy so sweet, As when the wand of his well-won power O'Connell laid at his country's feet. "No! not for me, nor for mine alone," The generous victor cried, "Have I fought, But to see my Eire again on her throne; Ah, that was my dream and my guiding thought.

To see my Eire again on her throne, Her tresses with lilies and shamrocks twined, Her severed sons to a nation grown, Her hostile hues in one flag combined; Her wisest gathered in grave debate, Her bravest armed to resist the foe: To see my country 'glorious and great,'— To see her 'free,'—to fight I go!"

And forth he went to the peaceful fight, And the millions rose at his words of fire, As the lightning's leap from the depth of the night, And circle some mighty minster's spire: Ah, ill had it fared with the hapless land, If the power that had roused could not restrain? If the bolts were not grasped in a glowing hand To be hurled in peals of thunder again?

And thus the people followed his path, As if drawn on by a magic spell,— By the royal hill and the haunted rath, By the hallowed spring and the holy well, By all the shrines that to Erin are dear, Round which her love like the ivy clings,— Still folding in leaves that never grow sere The cell of the saint and the home of kings.

And a soul of sweetness came into the land: Once more was the harp of Erin strung; Once more on the notes from some master hand The listening land in its rapture hung. Once more with the golden glory of words Were the youthful orator's lips inspired, Till he touched the heart to its tenderest chords, And quickened the pulse which his voice had fired.

And others divinely dowered to teach— High souls of honour, pure hearts of fire, So startled the world with their rhythmic speech, That it seemed attuned to some unseen lyre. But the kingliest voice God ever gave man Words sweeter still spoke than poet hath sung,— For a nation's wail through the numbers ran, And the soul of the Celt exhaled on his tongue.

And again the foe had been forced to yield; But the hero at last waxed feeble and old, Yet he scattered the seed in a fruitful field, To wave in good time as a harvest of gold. Then seeking the feet of God's High Priest, He slept by the soft Ligurian Sea, Leaving a light, like the Star in the East, To lead the land that will yet be free.

1875.

A hundred years their various course have run, Since Erin's arms received her noblest son, And years unnumbered must in turn depart Ere Erin fails to fold him to her heart. He is our boast, our glory, and our pride, For us he lived, fought, suffered, dared, and died; Struck off the shackles from each fettered limb, And all we have of best we owe to him. If some cathedral, exquisitely fair, Lifts its tall turrets through the wondering air, Though art or skill its separate offering brings, 'Tis from O'Connell's heart the structure springs. If through this city on these festive days, Halls, streets, and squares are bright with civic blaze Of glittering chains, white wands, and flowing gowns, The red-robed senates of a hundred towns, Whatever rank each special spot may claim, 'Tis from O'Connell's hand their charters came. If in the rising hopes of recent years A mighty sound reverberates on our ears, And myriad voices in one cry unite For restoration of a ravished right, 'Tis the great echo of that thunder blast, On Tara pealed or mightier Mullaghmast, If arts and letters are more widely spread, A Nile o'erflowing from its fertile bed, Spreading the rich alluvium whence are given Harvests for earth and amaranth flowers for heaven; If Science still, in not unholy walls, Sets its high chair, and dares unchartered halls, And still ascending, ever heavenward soars, While capped Exclusion slowly opes it doors, It is his breath that speeds the spreading tide, It is his hand the long-locked door throws wide. Where'er we turn the same effect we find— O'Connell's voice still speaks his country's mind. Therefore we gather to his birthday feast Prelate and peer, the people and the priest; Therefore we come, in one united band, To hail in him the hero of the land, To bless his memory, and with loud acclaim To all the winds, on all the wings of fame Waft to the listening world the great O'Connell's name.



MOORE. MAY 28TH, 1879.

Joy to Ierne, joy, This day a deathless crown is won, Her child of song, her glorious son, Her minstrel boy Attains his century of fame, Completes his time-allotted zone, And proudly with the world's acclaim Ascends the lyric throne.

Yes, joy to her whose path so long, Slow journeying to her realm of rest O'er many a rugged mountain's crest, He charmed with his enchanting song: Like his own princess in the tale, When he who had her way beguiled Through many a bleak and desert wild Until she reached Cashmere's bright vale Had ceased those notes to play and sing To which her heart responsive swelled, She looking up, in him beheld Her minstrel lover and her king;— So Erin now, her journey well-nigh o'er, Enraptured sees her minstrel king in Moore.

And round that throne whose light to-day O'er all the world is cast, In words though weak, in hues though faint, Congenial fancy rise and paint The spirits of the past Who here their homage pay— Those who his youthful muse inspired, Those who his early genius fired To emulate their lay: And as in some phantasmal glass Let the immortal spirits pass, Let each renew the inspiring strain, And fire the poet's soul again.

First there comes from classic Greece, Beaming love and breathing peace, With her pure, sweet smiling face, The glory of the Aeolian race, Beauteous Sappho, violet-crowned, Shedding joy and rapture round: In her hand a harp she bears, Parent of celestial airs, Love leaps trembling from each wire, Every chord a string of fire:— How the poet's heart doth beat, How his lips the notes repeat, Till in rapture borne along, The Sapphic lute, the lyrist's song, Blend in one delicious strain, Never to divide again.

And beside the Aeolian queen Great Alcaeus' form is seen: He takes up in voice more strong The dying cadence of the song, And on loud resounding strings Hurls his wrath on tyrant kings:— Like to incandescent coal On the poet's kindred soul Fall these words of living flame, Till their songs become the same,— The same hate of slavery's night, The same love of freedom's light, Scorning aught that stops its way, Come the black cloud whence it may, Lift alike the inspir'ed song, And the liquid notes prolong.

Carolling a livelier measure Comes the Teian bard of pleasure, Round his brow where joy reposes Radiant love enwreaths his roses, Rapture in his verse is ringing, Soft persuasion in his singing:— 'Twas the same melodious ditty Moved Polycrates to pity, Made that tyrant heart surrender Captive to a tone so tender: To the younger bard inclining, Round his brow the roses twining, First the wreath in red wine steeping, He his cithern to his keeping Yields, its glorious fate foreseeing, From her chains a nation freeing, Fetters new around it flinging In the flowers of his own singing.

But who is this that from the misty cloud Of immemorial years, Wrapped in the vesture of his vaporous shroud With solemn steps appears? His head with oak-leaves and with ivy crowned Lets fall its silken snow, While the white billows of his beard unbound Athwart his bosom flow: Who is this venerable form Whose hands, prelusive of the storm Across his harp-strings play— That harp which, trembling in his hand, Impatient waits its lord's command To pour the impassioned lay? Who is it comes with reverential hail To greet the bard who sang his country best 'Tis Ossian—primal poet of the Gael— The Homer of the West.

He sings the heroic tales of old When Ireland yet was free, Of many a fight and foray bold, And raid beyond the sea.

Of all the famous deeds of Fin, And all the wiles of Mave, Now thunders 'mid the battle's din, Now sobs beside the wave.

That wave empurpled by the sword The hero used too well, When great Cuchullin held the ford, And fair Ferdiah fell.

And now his prophet eye is cast As o'er a boundless plain; He sees the future as the past, And blends them in his strain.

The Red-Branch Knights their flags unfold When danger's front appears, The sunburst breaks through clouds of gold To glorify their spears.

But, ah! a darker hour drew nigh, The hour of Erin's woe, When she, though destined not to die, Lay prostrate 'neath the foe.

When broke were all the arms she bore, And bravely bore in vain, Till even her harp could sound no more Beneath the victor's chain.

Ah! dire constraint, ah! cruel wrong, To fetter thus its chord, But well they knew that Ireland's song Was keener than her sword.

That song would pierce where swords would fail, And o'er the battle's din, The sweet, sad music of the Gael A peaceful victory win.

Long was the trance, but sweet and low The harp breathed out again Its speechless wail, its wordless woe, In Carolan's witching strain.

Until at last the gift of words Denied to it so long, Poured o'er the now enfranchised chords The articulate light of song.

Poured the bright light from genius won, That woke the harp's wild lays; Even as that statue which the sun Made vocal with his rays.

Thus Ossian in disparted dream Outpoured the varied lay, But now in one united stream His rapture finds its way:—

"Yes, in thy hands, illustrious son, The harp shall speak once more, Its sweet lament shall rippling run From listening shore to shore.

Till mighty lands that lie unknown Far in the fabled west, And giant isles of verdure thrown Upon the South Sea's breast.

And plains where rushing rivers flow— Fit emblems of the free— Shall learn to know of Ireland's woe, And Ireland's weal through thee."

'Twas thus he sang, And while tumultuous plaudits rang From the immortal throng, In the younger minstrel's hand He placed the emblem of the land— The harp of Irish song.

Oh! what dulcet notes are heard. Never bird Soaring through the sunny air Like a prayer Borne by angel's hands on high So entranced the listening sky As his song— Soft, pathetic, joyous, strong, Rising now in rapid flight Out of sight Like a lark in its own light, Now descending low and sweet To our feet, Till the odours of the grass With the light notes as they pass Blend and meet: All that Erin's memory guards In her heart, Deeds of heroes, songs of bards, Have their part.

Brian's glories reappear, Fionualla's song we hear, Tara's walls resound again With a more inspir'ed strain, Rival rivers meet and join, Stately Shannon blends with Boyne; While on high the storm-winds cease Heralding the arch of peace.

And all the bright creations fair That 'neath his master-hand awake, Some in tears and some in smiles, Like Nea in the summer isles, Or Kathleen by the lonely lake, Round his radiant throne repair: Nay, his own Peri of the air Now no more disconsolate, Gives in at Fame's celestial gate His passport to the skies— The gift to heaven most dear, His country's tear. From every lip the glad refrain doth rise, "Joy, ever joy, his glorious task is done, The gates are passed and Fame's bright heaven is won!"

Ah! yes, the work, the glorious work is done, And Erin crowns to-day her brightest son, Around his brow entwines the victor bay, And lives herself immortal in his lay— Leads him with honour to her highest place, For he had borne his more than mother's name Proudly along the Olympic lists of fame When mighty athletes struggled in the race. Byron, the swift-souled spirit, in his pride Paused to cheer on the rival by his side, And Lycidas, so long Lost in the light of his own dazzling song, Although himself unseen, Gave the bright wreath that might his own have been To him whom 'mid the mountain shepherd throng, The minstrels of the isles, When Adonais died so fair and young, Ierne sent from out her green defiles "The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue." And he who sang of Poland's kindred woes, And Hope's delicious dream, And all the mighty minstrels who arose In that auroral gleam That o'er our age a blaze of glory threw Which Shakspere's only knew— Some from their hidden haunts remote, Like him the lonely hermit of the hills, Whose song like some great organ note The whole horizon fills. Or the great Master, he whose magic hand, Wielding the wand from which such wonder flows, Transformed the lineaments of a rugged land, And left the thistle lovely as the rose. Oh! in a concert of such minstrelsy, In such a glorious company, What pride for Ireland's harp to sound, For Ireland's son to share, What pride to see him glory-crowned, And hear amid the dazzling gleam Upon the rapt and ravished air Her harp still sound supreme!

Glory to Moore, eternal be the glory That here we crown and consecrate to-day, Glory to Moore, for he has sung our story In strains whose sweetness ne'er can pass away.

Glory to Moore, for he has sighed our sorrow In such a wail of melody divine, That even from grief a passing joy we borrow, And linger long o'er each lamenting line.

Glory to Moore, that in his songs of gladness Which neither change nor time can e'er destroy, Though mingled oft with some faint sigh of sadness, He sings his country's rapture and its joy.

What wit like his flings out electric flashes That make the numbers sparkle as they run: Wit that revives dull history's Dead-sea ashes, And makes the ripe fruit glisten in the sun?

What fancy full of loveliness and lightness Has spread like his as at some dazzling feast, The fruits and flowers, the beauty and the brightness, And all the golden glories of the East?

Perpetual blooms his bower of summer roses, No winter comes to turn his green leaves sere, Beside his song-stream where the swan reposes The bulbul sings as by the Bendemeer.

But back returning from his flight with Peris, Above his native fields he sings his best, Like to the lark whose rapture never wearies, When poised in air he singeth o'er his nest.

And so we rank him with the great departed, The kings of song who rule us from their urns, The souls inspired, the natures noble hearted, And place him proudly by the side of Burns.

And as not only by the Calton Mountain, Is Scotland's bard remembered and revered, But whereso'er, like some o'erflowing fountain, Its hardy race a prosperous path has cleared.

There 'mid the roar of newly-rising cities, His glorious name is heard on every tongue, There to the music of immortal ditties, His lays of love, his patriot songs are sung.

So not alone beside that bay of beauty That guards the portals of his native town Where like two watchful sentinels on duty, Howth and Killiney from their heights look down.

But wheresoe'er the exiled race hath drifted, By what far sea, what mighty stream beside, There shall to-day the poet's name be lifted, And Moore proclaimed its glory and its pride:

There shall his name be held in fond memento, There shall his songs resound for evermore, Whether beside the golden Sacramento, Or where Niagara's thunder shakes the shore.

For all that's bright indeed must fade and perish, And all that's sweet when sweetest not endure, Before the world shall cease to love and cherish The wit and song, the name and fame of MOORE.



Miscellaneous Poems.



THE SPIRIT OF THE SNOW.

The night brings forth the morn— Of the cloud is lightning born; From out the darkest earth the brightest roses grow. Bright sparks from black flints fly, And from out a leaden sky Comes the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow.

The wondering air grows mute, As her pearly parachute Cometh slowly down from heaven, softly floating to and fro; And the earth emits no sound, As lightly on the ground Leaps the silvery-footed Spirit of the Snow.

At the contact of her tread, The mountain's festal head, As with chaplets of white roses, seems to glow; And its furrowed cheek grows white With a feeling of delight, At the presence of the Spirit of the Snow.

As she wendeth to the vale, The longing fields grow pale— The tiny streams that vein them cease to flow; And the river stays its tide With wonder and with pride, To gaze upon the Spirit of the Snow.

But little doth she deem The love of field or stream— She is frolicsome and lightsome as the roe; She is here and she is there, On the earth or in the air, Ever changing, floats the Spirit of the Snow.

Now a daring climber, she Mounts the tallest forest tree— Out along the giddy branches doth she go; And her tassels, silver-white, Down swinging through the night, Mark the pillow of the Spirit of the Snow.

Now she climbs the mighty mast, When the sailor boy at last Dreams of home in his hammock down below There she watches in his stead Till the morning sun shines red, Then evanishes the Spirit of the Snow.

Or crowning with white fire. The minster's topmost spire With a glory such as sainted foreheads show; She teaches fanes are given Thus to lift the heart to heaven, There to melt like the Spirit of the Snow.

Now above the loaded wain, Now beneath the thundering train, Doth she hear the sweet bells tinkle and the snorting engine blow; Now she flutters on the breeze, Till the branches of the trees Catch the tossed and tangled tresses of the Spirit of the Snow.

Now an infant's balmy breath Gives the spirit seeming death, When adown her pallid features fair Decay's damp dew-drops flow; Now again her strong assault Can make an army halt, And trench itself in terror 'gainst the Spirit of the Snow.

At times with gentle power, In visiting some bower, She scarce will hide the holly's red, the blackness of the sloe; But, ah! her awful might, When down some Alpine height The hapless hamlet sinks before the Spirit of the Snow.

On a feather she floats down The turbid rivers brown, Down to meet the drifting navies of the winter-freighted floe; Then swift o'er the azure walls Of the awful waterfalls, Where Niagara leaps roaring, glides the Spirit of the Snow.

With her flag of truce unfurled, She makes peace o'er all the world— Makes bloody battle cease awhile, and war's unpitying woe; Till, its hollow womb within, The deep dark-mouthed culverin Encloses, like a cradled child, the Spirit of the Snow.

She uses in her need The fleetly-flying steed— Now tries the rapid reindeer's strength, and now the camel slow; Or, ere defiled by earth, Unto her place of birth, Returns upon the eagle's wing the Spirit of the Snow.

Oft with pallid figure bowed, Like the Banshee in her shroud, Doth the moon her spectral shadow o'er some silent gravestone throw; Then moans the fitful wail, And the wanderer grows pale, Till at morning fades the phantom of the Spirit of the Snow.

In her ermine cloak of state She sitteth at the gate Of some winter-prisoned princess in her palace by the Po; Who dares not to come forth Till back unto the North Flies the beautiful besieger—the Spirit of the Snow.

In her spotless linen hood, Like the other sisterhood, She braves the open cloister when the psalm sounds sweet and low; When some sister's bier doth pass From the minster and the Mass, Soon to sink into the earth, like the Spirit of the Snow.

But at times so full of joy, She will play with girl and boy, Fly from out their tingling fingers, like white fireballs on the foe; She will burst in feathery flakes, And the ruin that she makes Will but wake the crackling laughter of the Spirit of the Snow.

Or in furry mantle drest, She will fondle on her breast The embryo buds awaiting the near Spring's mysterious throe; So fondly that the first Of the blossoms that outburst Will be called the beauteous daughter of the Spirit of the Snow.

Ah! would that we were sure Of hearts so warmly pure, In all the winter weather that this lesser life must know; That when shines the Sun of Love From the warmer realm above, In its light we may dissolve, like the Spirit of the Snow.



TO THE BAY OF DUBLIN.

My native Bay, for many a year I've lov'd thee with a trembling fear, Lest thou, though dear and very dear, And beauteous as a vision, Shouldst have some rival far away, Some matchless wonder of a bay, Whose sparkling waters ever play 'Neath azure skies elysian.

'Tis Love, methought, blind Love that pours The rippling magic round these shores, For whatsoever Love adores Becomes what Love desireth: 'Tis ignorance of aught beside That throws enchantment o'er the tide, And makes my heart respond with pride To what mine eye admireth,

And thus, unto our mutual loss, Whene'er I paced the sloping moss Of green Killiney, or across The intervening waters, Up Howth's brown sides my feet would wend, To see thy sinuous bosom bend, Or view thine outstretch'd arms extend To clasp thine islet daughters;

Then would this spectre of my fear Beside me stand—How calm and clear Slept underneath, the green waves, near The tide-worn rocks' recesses; Or when they woke, and leapt from land, Like startled sea-nymphs, hand-in-hand, Seeking the southern silver strand With floating emerald tresses:

It lay o'er all, a moral mist, Even on the hills, when evening kissed The granite peaks to amethyst, I felt its fatal shadow: It darkened o'er the brightest rills, It lowered upon the sunniest hills, And hid the wing'ed song that fills The moorland and the meadow.

But now that I have been to view All even Nature's self can do, And from Gaeta's arch of blue Borne many a fond memento; And from each fair and famous scene, Where Beauty is, and Power hath been, Along the golden shores between Misenum and Sorrento:

I can look proudly in thy face, Fair daughter of a hardier race, And feel thy winning well-known grace, Without my old misgiving; And as I kneel upon thy strand, And kiss thy once unvalued hand, Proclaim earth holds no lovelier land, Where life is worth the living.



TO ETHNA.

First loved, last loved, best loved of all I've loved! Ethna, my boyhood's dream, my manhood's light, Pure angel spirit, in whose light I've moved, Full many a year, along life's darksome night! Thou wert my star, serenely shining bright Beyond youth's passing clouds and mists obscure Thou wert the power that kept my spirit white, My soul unsoiled, my heart untouched and pure. Thine was the light from heaven that ever must endure.

Purest, and best, and brightest, no mishap, No chance, or change can break our mutual ties; My heart lies spread before thee like a map, Here roll the tides, and there the mountains rise; Here dangers frown and there hope's streamlet flies, And golden promontories cleave the main: And I have looked into thy lustrous eyes, And saw the thought thou couldst not all restrain, A sweet, soft, sympathetic pity for my pain!

Dearest, and best, I dedicate to thee, From this hour forth, my hopes, my dreams, my cares, All that I am, and all I e'er may be, Youth's clustering locks, and age's thin white hairs; Thou by my side, fair vision, unawares— Sweet saint—shalt guard me as with angel's wings; To thee shall rise the morning's hopeful prayers, The evening hymns, the thoughts that midnight brings, The worship that like fire out of the warm heart springs.

Thou wilt be with me through the struggling day, Thou wilt be with me through the pensive night, Thou wilt be with me, though far, far away Some sad mischance may snatch you from my sight, In grief, in pain, in gladness, in delight, In every thought thy form shall bear a part, In every dream thy memory shall unite, Bride of my soul! and partner of my heart! Till from the dreadful bow flieth the fatal dart!

Am I deceived? and do I pine and faint For worth that only dwells in heaven above, And if thou'rt not the Ethna that I paint, Then thou art not the Ethna that I love; If thou art not as gentle as the dove, And good as thou art beautiful, the tooth Of venomed serpent will not deadlier prove Than that dark revelation; but in sooth, Ethna, I wrong thee, dearest, for thy name is TRUTH.



"NOT KNOWN."

On receiving through the Post-Office a Returned Letter from an old residence, marked on the envelope, "Not Known."

A beauteous summer-home had I As e'er a bard set eyes on— A glorious sweep of sea and sky, Near hills and far horizon. Like Naples was the lovely bay, The lovely hill like Rio— And there I lived for many a day In Campo de Estio.

It seemed as if the magic scene No human skill had planted; The trees remained for ever green, As if they were enchanted: And so I said to Sweetest-eyes, My dear, I think that we owe To fairy hands this paradise Of Campo de Estio.

How swiftly flew the hours away! I read and rhymed and revelled; In interchange of work and play, I built, and drained, and levelled; "The Pope," so "happy," days gone by (Unlike our ninth Pope Pio), Was far less happy then than I In Campo de Estio.

For children grew in that sweet place, As in the grape wine gathers— Their mother's eyes in each bright face, In each light heart, their father's: Their father, who by some was thought A literary 'leo,' Ne'er dreamed he'd be so soon forgot In Campo de Estio.

But so it was:—Of hope bereft, A year had scarce gone over, Since he that sweetest place had left, And gone—we'll say—to Dover, When letters came where he had flown. Returned him from the "P. O.," On which was writ, O Heavens! "NOT KNOWN IN CAMPO DE ESTIO!"

"Not known" where he had lived so long, A "cintra" home created, Where scarce a shrub that now is strong But had its place debated; Where scarce a flower that now is shown, But shows his care: O Dio! And now to be described, "Not known In Campo de Estio."

That pillar from the Causeway brought— This fern from Connemara— That pine so long and widely sought— This Cedrus deodara— That bust (if Shakespeare's doth survive, And busts had brains and 'brio'), Might keep his name at least alive In Campo de Estio.

When Homer went from place to place, The glorious siege reciting (Of course I presuppose the case Of reading and of writing), I've little doubt the Bard divine His letters got from Scio, Inscribed "Not known," Ah! me, like mine From Campo de Estio.

The poet, howsoe'er inspired, Must brave neglect and danger; When Philip Massinger expired, The death-list said "a stranger!" A stranger! yes, on earth, but let The poet sing 'laus Deo'!— Heaven's glorious summer waits him yet— God's "Campo de Estio."



THE LAY MISSIONER.

Had I a wish—'twere this, that heaven would make My heart as strong to imitate as love, That half its weakness it could leave, and take Some spirit's strength, by which to soar above, A lordly eagle mated with a dove. Strong-will and warm affection, these be mine; Without the one no dreams has fancy wove, Without the other soon these dreams decline, Weak children of the heart, which fade away and pine!

Strong have I been in love, if not in will; Affections crowd and people all the past, And now, even now, they come and haunt me still, Even from the graves where once my hopes were cast. But not with spectral features—all aghast— Come they to fright me; no, with smiles and tears, And winding arms, and breasts that beat as fast As once they beat in boyhood's opening years, Come the departed shades, whose steps my rapt soul hears.

Youth has passed by, its first warm flush is o'er, And now, 'tis nearly noon; yet unsubdued My heart still kneels and worships, as of yore, Those twin-fair shapes, the Beautiful and Good! Valley and mountain, sky and stream, and wood, And that fair miracle, the human face, And human nature in its sunniest mood, Freed from the shade of all things low and base,— These in my heart still hold their old accustom'd place.

'Tis not with pride, but gratitude, I tell How beats my heart with all its youthful glow, How one kind act doth make my bosom swell, And down my cheeks the sweet, warm, glad tears flow. Enough of self, enough of me you know, Kind reader, but if thou wouldst further wend, With me, this wilderness of weak words thro', Let me depict, before the journey end, One whom methinks thou'lt love, my brother and my friend.

Ah! wondrous is the lot of him who stands A Christian Priest, with a Christian fane, And binds with pure and consecrated hands, Round earth and heaven, a festal, flower chain; Even as between the blue arch and the main, A circling western ring of golden light Weds the two worlds, or as the sunny rain Of April makes the cloud and clay unite, Thus links the Priest of God the dark world and the bright.

All are not priests, yet priestly duties may And should be all men's: as a common sight We view the brightness of a summer's day, And think 'tis but its duty to be bright; But should a genial beam of warming light Suddenly break from out a wintry sky, With gratitude we own a new delight, Quick beats the heart and brighter beams the eye, And as a boon we hail the splendour from on high.

'Tis so with men, with those of them at least Whose hearts by icy doubts are chill'd and torn; They think the virtues of a Christian Priest Something professional, put on and worn Even as the vestments of a Sabbath morn: But should a friend or act or teach as he, Then is the mind of all its doubting shorn, The unexpected goodness that they see Takes root, and bears its fruit, as uncoerced and free!

One I have known, and haply yet I know, A youth by baser passions undefiled, Lit by the light of genius and the glow Which real feeling leaves where once it smiled; Firm as a man, yet tender as a child; Armed at all points by fantasy and thought, To face the true or soar amid the wild; By love and labour, as a good man ought, Ready to pay the price by which dear truth is bought!

'Tis not with cold advice or stern rebuke, With formal precept, or wit face demure, But with the unconscious eloquence of look, Where shines the heart so loving and so pure: 'Tis these, with constant goodness, that allure All hearts to love and imitate his worth. Beside him weaker natures feel secure, Even as the flower beside the oak peeps forth, Safe, though the rain descends, and blows the biting North!

Such is my friend, and such I fain would be, Mild, thoughtful, modest, faithful, loving, gay, Correct, not cold, nor uncontroll'd though free, But proof to all the lures that round us play, Even as the sun, that on his azure way Moveth with steady pace and lofty mien, Though blushing clouds, like syrens, woo his stay, Higher and higher through the pure serene, Till comes the calm of eve and wraps him from the scene.



THE SPIRIT OF THE IDEAL.

Sweet sister spirits, ye whose starlight tresses Stream on the night-winds as ye float along, Missioned with hope to man—and with caresses

To slumbering babes—refreshment to the strong— And grace the sensuous soul that it's arrayed in: As the light burden of melodious song

Weighs down a poet's words;—as an o'erladen Lily doth bend beneath its own pure snow; Or with its joy, the free heart of a maiden:—

Thus, I behold your outstretched pinions grow Heavy with all the priceless gifts and graces God through thy ministration doth bestow.

Do ye not plant the rose on youthful faces? And rob the heavens of stars for Beauty's eyes? Do ye not fold within love's pure embraces

All that Omnipotence doth yet devise For human bliss, or rapture superhuman— Heaven upon earth, and earth still in the skies?

Do ye not sow the fruitful heart of woman With tenderest charities and faith sincere, To feed man's sterile soul and to illumine

His duller eyes, that else might settle here, With the bright promise of a purer region— A starlight beacon to a starry sphere?

Are they not all thy children, that bright legion— Of aspirations, and all hopeful sighs That in the solemn train of grave Religion

Strew heavenly flowers before man's longing eyes, And make him feel, as o'er life's sea he wendeth, The far-off odorous airs of Paradise?—

Like to the breeze some flowery island sendeth Unto the seaman, ere its bowers are seen, Which tells him soon his weary wandering endeth—

Soon shall he rest, in bosky shades of green, By daisied meadows prankt with dewy flowers, With ever-running rivulets between.

These are thy tasks, my sisters—these the powers God in his goodness gives into thy hands:— 'Tis from thy fingers fall the diamond showers

Of budding Spring, and o'er the expectant lands June's odorous purple and rich Autumn's gold: And even when needful Winter wide expands

His fallow wings, and winds blow sharp and cold From the harsh east, 'tis thine, o'er all the plain, The leafless woodlands and the unsheltered wold,

Gently to drop the flakes of feathery rain— Heaven's warmest down—around the slumbering seeds, And o'er the roots the frost-blanched counterpane.

What though man's careless eye but little heeds Even the effects, much less the remoter cause, Still, in the doing of beneficent deeds—

By God and his Vicegerent Nature's laws— Ever a compensating joy is found. Think ye the rain-drop heedeth if it draws

Rankness as well as Beauty from the ground? Or that the sullen wind will deign to wake Only Aeolian melodies of sound—

And not the stormy screams that make men quake Thus do ye act, my sisters; thus ye do Your cheerful duty for the doing's sake—

Not unrewarded surely—not when you See the successful issue of your charms, Bringing the absent back again to view—

Giving the loved one to the lover's arms— Smoothing the grassy couch in weary age— Hushing in death's great calm a world's alarms.

I, I alone upon the earth's vast stage Am doomed to act an unrequited part— I, the unseen preceptress of the sage—

I, whose ideal form doth win the heart Of all whom God's vocation hath assigned To wear the sacred vesture of high Art—

To pass along the electric sparks of mind From age to age, from race to race, until The expanding truth encircles all mankind.

What without me were all the poet's skill?— Dead, sensuous form without the quickening soul. What without me the instinctive aim of will?—

A useless magnet pointing to no pole. What the fine ear and the creative hand? Most potent spirits free from man's control.

I, THE IDEAL, by the poet stand When all his soul o'erflows with holy fire, When currents of the beautiful and grand

Run glittering down along each burning wire Until the heart of the great world doth feel The electric shock of his God-kindled lyre:—

Then rolls the thunderous music peal on peal, Or in the breathless after-pause, a strain Simpler and sweeter through the hush doth steal—

Like to the pattering drops of summer rain Or rustling grass, when fragrance fills the air And all the groves are vocal once again:

Whatever form, whatever shape I bear, The Spirit of high Impulse, and the Soul Of all conceptions beautiful and rare,

Am I; who now swift spurning all control, On rapid wings—the Ariel of the Muse— Dart from the dazzling centre to the pole;

Now in the magic mimicry of hues Such as surround God's golden throne, descend In Titian's skies the boundaries to confuse

Betwixt earth's heaven and heaven's own heaven to blend In Raphael's forms the human and divine, Where spirit dawns, and matter seems to end.

Again on wings of melody, so fine They mock the sight, but fall upon the ear Like tuneful rose-leaves at the day's decline—

And with the music of a happier sphere Entrance some master of melodious sound, Till startled men the hymns of angels hear.

Happy for me when, in the vacant round Of barren ages, one great steadfast soul Faithful to me and to his art is found.

But, ah! my sisters, with my grief condole; Join in my sorrows and respond my sighs; And let your sobs the funeral dirges toll;

Weep those who falter in the great emprise— Who, turning off upon some poor pretence, Some worthless guerdon or some paltry prize,

Down from the airy zenith through the immense Sink to the low expedients of an hour, And barter soul for all the slough of sense,—

Just when the mind had reached its regal power, And fancy's wing its perfect plume unfurl'd,— Just when the bud of promise in the flower

Of all completeness opened on the world— When the pure fire that heaven itself outflung Back to its native empyrean curled,

Like vocal incense from a censer swung:— Ah, me! to be subdued when all seemed won— That I should fly when I would fain have clung.

Yet so it is,—our radiant course is run;— Here we must part, the deathless lay unsung, And, more than all, the deathless deed undone.



RECOLLECTIONS.

Ah! summer time, sweet summer scene, When all the golden days, Linked hand-in-hand, like moonlit fays, Danced o'er the deepening green.

When, from the top of Pelier[111] down We saw the sun descend, With smiles that blessings seemed to send To our near native town.

And when we saw him rise again High o'er the hills at morn— God's glorious prophet daily born To preach good will to men—