Chapter 3

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.

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--

Good-will and peace to all between The gates of night and day-- Join with me, love, and with me say-- Sweet summer time and scene.

Sweet summer time, true age of gold, When hand-in-hand we went Slow by the quickening shrubs, intent To see the buds unfold:

To trace new wild flowers in the grass, New blossoms on the bough, And see the water-lilies now Rise o'er the liquid glass.

When from the fond and folding gale The scented briar I pulled, Or for thy kindred bosom culled The lily of the vale;--

Thou without whom were dark the green, The golden turned to gray, Join with me, love, and with me say-- Sweet summer time and scene.

Sweet summer time, delight's brief reign, Thou hast one memory still, Dearer than ever tree or hill Yet stretched along life's plain.

Stranger than all the wond'rous whole, Flowers, fields, and sunset skies-- To see within our infant's eyes The awakening of the soul.

To see their dear bright depths first stirred By the far breath of thought, To feel our trembling hearts o'erfraught With rapture when we heard

Her first clear laugh, which might have been A cherub's laugh at play-- Ah! love, thou canst but join and say-- Sweet summer time and scene.

Sweet summer time, sweet summer days, One day I must recall; One day the brightest of them all, Must mark with special praise.

'Twas when at length in genial showers The spring attained its close; And June with many a myriad rose Incarnadined the bowers:

Led by the bright and sun-warm air, We left our indoor nooks; Thou with my paper and my books, And I thy garden chair;

Crossed the broad, level garden-walks, With countless roses lined; And where the apple still inclined Its blossoms o'er the box,

Near to the lilacs round the pond, In its stone ring hard by We took our seats, where save the sky, And the few forest trees beyond

The garden wall, we nothing saw, But flowers and blossoms, and we heard Nought but the whirring of some bird, Or the rooks' distant, clamorous caw.

And in the shade we saw the face Of our dear infant sleeping near, And thou wert by to smile and hear, And speak with innate truth and grace.

There through the pleasant noontide hours My task of echoed song I sung; Turning the golden southern tongue Into the iron ore of ours!

'Twas the great Spanish master's pride, The story of the hero proved; 'Twas how the Moorish princess loved, And how the firm Fernando died.[112]

O happiest season ever seen, O day, indeed the happiest day; Join with me, love, and with me say-- Sweet summer time and scene.

One picture more before I close Fond Memory's fast dissolving views; One picture more before I lose The radiant outlines as they rose.

'Tis evening, and we leave the porch, And for the hundredth time admire The rhododendron's cones of fire Rise round the tree, like torch o'er torch.

And for the hundredth time point out Each favourite blossom and perfume-- If the white lilac still doth bloom, Or the pink hawthorn fadeth out:

And by the laurell'd wall, and o'er The fields of young green corn we've gone; And by the outer gate, and on To our dear friend's oft-trodden door.

And there in cheerful talk we stay, Till deepening twilight warns us home; Then once again we backward roam Calmly and slow the well-known way--

And linger for the expected view-- Day's dying gleam upon the hill; Or listen for the whip-poor-will,[113] Or the too seldom shy cuckoo.

At home the historic page we glean, And muse, and hope, and praise, and pray-- Join with me, love, as then, and say-- Sweet summer time and scene!

111. Mount Pelier, in the county of Dublin, overlooking Rathfarnham, and more remotely Dundrum. To a brief residence near the latter village the "Recollections" rendered in this poem are to be referred.

112. Calderon's "El Principe Constante," translated in the earlier volumes of the author's Calderon. London, 1853.

113. I do not know the bird to which I have given this Indian name. It, however, imitated its note quite distinctly.

DOLORES.

The moon of my soul is dark, Dolores, Dead and dark in my breast it lies, For I miss the heaven of thy smile, Dolores, And the light of thy brown bright eyes.

The rose of my heart is gone, Dolores, Bud or blossom in vain I seek; For I miss the breath of thy lip, Dolores, And the blush of thy pearl-pale cheek.

The pulse of my heart is still, Dolores, Still and chill is its glowing tide; For I miss the beating of thine, Dolores, In the vacant space by my side.

But the moon shall revisit my soul, Dolores, And the rose shall refresh my heart, When I meet thee again in heaven, Dolores, Never again to part.

LOST AND FOUND.

"Whither art thou gone, fair Una? Una fair, the moon is gleaming; Fear no mortal eye, fair Una, For the very flowers are dreaming. And the twinkling stars are closing Up their weary watching glances, Warders on heaven's walls reposing, While the glittering foe advances.

"Una dear, my heart is throbbing, Full of throbbings without number; Come! the tired-out streams are sobbing Like to children ere they slumber; And the longing trees inclining, Seek the earth's too distant bosom; Sad fate! that keeps from intertwining The earthly and the aerial blossom.

"Una dear, I've roamed the mountain, Round the furze and o'er the heather; Una, dear, I've sought the fountain Where we rested oft together; Ah! the mountain now looks dreary, Dead and dark where no life liveth; Ah! the fountain, to the weary, Now, no more refreshment giveth.

"Una, darling, dearest daughter Beauty ever gave to Fancy, Spirit of the silver water, Nymph of Nature's necromancy! Fair enchantress, fond magician, Is thine every spell-word spoken? Hast thou closed thy fairy mission? Is thy potent wand then broken?

"Una dearest, deign to hear me, Fly no more my prayer resisting!" Then a trembling voice came near me, Like a maiden to the trysting, Like a maiden's feet approaching Where the lover doth attend her; Half-forgiving, half-reproaching, Came that voice so shy and tender.

"Must I blame thee, must I chide thee, Change to scorn the love I bore thee? And the fondest heart beside thee, And the truest eyes before thee. And the kindest hands to press thee, And the instinctive sense to guide thee, And the purest lips to bless thee, What, O dreamer! is denied thee?

"Hast thou not the full fruition, Hast thou not the full enjoyance Of thy young heart's fond ambition, Free from every feared annoyance Thou hast sighed for truth and beauty, Hast thou failed, then, in thy wooing? Dreamed of some ideal duty, Is there nought that waits thy doing?--

"Is the world less bright or beauteous, That dear eyes behold it with thee? Is the work of life less duteous, That thou art helped to do it, prithee? Is the near rapture non-existent, Because thou dreamest an ideal? And canst thou for a glimmering distant Forget the blessings of the real?

"Down on thy knees, O doubting dreamer! Down! and repent thy heart's misprision." Scarce had I knelt in tears and tremor, When the scales fell from off my vision. There stood my human guardian angel, Given me by God's benign foreseeing, While from her lips came life's evangel, "Live! that each day complete thy being!"

SPRING FLOWERS FROM IRELAND.

On receiving an early crocus and some violets in a letter from Ireland.

Within the letter's rustling fold I find once more a glad surprise-- A little tiny cup of gold-- Two little lovely violet eyes; A cup of gold with emeralds set, Once filled with wine from happier spheres; Two little eyes so lately wet With spring's delicious dewy tears.

Oh! little eyes that wept and laughed, Now bright with smiles, with tears now dim, Oh! little cup that once was quaffed By fay-queens fluttering round thy rim. I press each silken fringe's fold, Sweet little eyes once more ye shine; I kiss thy lip, oh, cup of gold, And find thee full of Memory's wine.

Within their violet depths I gaze, And see as in the camera's gloom, The island with its belt of bays, Its chieftained heights all capped with broom, Which as the living lens it fills, Now seems a giant charmed to sleep-- Now a broad shield embossed with hills Upon the bosom of the deep.

When will the slumbering giant wake? When will the shield defend and guard? Ah, me! prophetic gleams forsake The once rapt eyes of seer or bard. Enough, if shunning Samson's fate, It doth not all its vigour yield; Enough, if plenteous peace, though late, May rest beneath the sheltering shield.

I see the long and lone defiles Of Keimaneigh's bold rocks uphurled, I see the golden fruited isles That gem the queen-lakes of the world; I see--a gladder sight to me-- By soft Shanganah's silver strand, The breaking of a sapphire sea Upon the golden-fretted sand.

Swiftly the tunnel's rock-hewn pass, Swiftly the fiery train runs through; Oh! what a glittering sheet of glass! Oh! what enchantment meets my view! With eyes insatiate I pursue, Till Bray's bright headland bounds the scene. 'Tis Baiae, by a softer blue! Gaeta, by a gladder green!

By tasseled groves, o'er meadows fair, I'm carried in my blissful dream, To where--a monarch in the air-- The pointed mountain reigns supreme; There in a spot remote and wild, I see once more the rustic seat, Where Carrigoona, like a child, Sits at the mightier mountain's feet.

There by the gentler mountain's slope, That happiest year of many a year, That first swift year of love and hope, With her then dear and ever dear, I sat upon the rustic seat, The seat an aged bay-tree crowns, And saw outspreading from our feet The golden glory of the Downs.

The furze-crowned heights, the glorious glen, The white-walled chapel glistening near, The house of God, the homes of men, The fragrant hay, the ripening ear; There where there seemed nor sin nor crime, There in God's sweet and wholesome air-- Strange book to read at such a time-- We read of Vanity's false Fair.

We read the painful pages through, Perceived the skill, admired the art, Felt them if true, not wholly true, A truer truth was in our heart. Save fear and love of One, hath proved The sage how vain is all below; And one was there who feared and loved, And one who loved that she was so.

The vision spreads, the memories grow, Fair phantoms crowd the more I gaze, Oh! cup of gold, with wine o'erflow, I'll drink to those departed days: And when I drain the golden cup To them, to those I ne'er can see, With wine of hope I'll fill it up, And drink to days that yet may be.

I've drunk the future and the past, Now for a draught of warmer wine-- One draught, the sweetest and the last, Lady, I'll drink to thee and thine. These flowers that to my breast I fold, Into my very heart have grown; To thee I'll drain the cup of gold, And think the violet eyes thine own.

Boulogne, March, 1865.

TO THE MEMORY OF FATHER PROUT.

In deep dejection, but with affection, I often think of those pleasant times, In the days of Fraser, ere I touched a razor, How I read and revell'd in thy racy rhymes; When in wine and wassail, we to thee were vassal, Of Watergrass-hill, O renowned P.P.! May the bells of Shandon Toll blithe and bland on The pleasant waters of thy memory!

Full many a ditty, both wise and witty, In this social city have I heard since then (With the glass before me, how the dream comes o'er me, Of those Attic suppers, and those vanished men). But no song hath woken, whether sung or spoken, Or hath left a token of such joy in me As "The Bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee."

The songs melodious, which--a new Harmodius-- "Young Ireland" wreathed round its rebel sword, With their deep vibrations and aspirations, Fling a glorious madness o'er the festive board! But to me seems sweeter, with a tone completer, The melodious metre that we owe to thee-- Of the bells of Shandon That sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

There's a grave that rises o'er thy sward, Devizes, Where Moore lies sleeping from his land afar, And a white stone flashes over Goldsmith's ashes In quiet cloisters by Temple Bar; So where'er thou sleepest, with a love that's deepest, Shall thy land remember thy sweet song and thee, While the Bells of Shandon Shall sound so grand on The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

THOSE SHANDON BELLS.

[The remains of the Rev. Francis Mahony were laid in the family burial-place in St. Anne Shandon Churchyard, the "Bells," which he has rendered famous, tolling the knell of the poet, who sang of their sweet chimes.]

Those Shandon bells, those Shandon bells! Whose deep, sad tone now sobs, now swells-- Who comes to seek this hallowed ground, And sleep within their sacred sound?

'Tis one who heard these chimes when young, And who in age their praises sung, Within whose breast their music made A dream of home where'er he strayed.

And, oh! if bells have power to-day To drive all evil things away, Let doubt be dumb, and envy cease-- And round his grave reign holy peace.

True love doth love in turn beget, And now these bells repay the debt; Whene'er they sound, their music tells Of him who sang sweet Shandon bells!

May 30, 1866.

YOUTH AND AGE.

To give the blossom and the fruit The soft warm air that wraps them round, Oh! think how long the toilsome root Must live and labour 'neath the ground.

To send the river on its way, With ever deepening strength and force, Oh! think how long 'twas let to play, A happy streamlet, near its source.

TO JUNE. WRITTEN AFTER AN UNGENIAL MAY.

I'll heed no more the poet's lay-- His false-fond song shall charm no more-- My heart henceforth shall but adore The real, not the misnamed May.

Too long I've knelt, and vainly hung My offerings round an empty name; O May! thou canst not be the same As once thou wert when Earth was young.

Thou canst not be the same to-day-- The poet's dream--the lover's joy:-- The floral heaven of girl and boy Were heaven no more, if thou wert May.

If thou wert May, then May is cold, And, oh! how changed from what she has been-- Then barren boughs are bright with green, And leaden skies are glad with gold.

And the dark clouds that veiled thy moon Were silvery-threaded tissues bright, Looping the locks of amber light That float but on the airs of June.

O June! thou art the real May; Thy name is soft and sweet as hers But rich blood thy bosom stirs, Her marble cheek cannot display.

She cometh like a haughty girl, So conscious of her beauty's power, She now will wear nor gem nor flower Upon her pallid breast of pearl.

And her green silken summer dress, So simply flower'd in white and gold, She scorns to let our eyes behold, But hides through very wilfulness:

Hides it 'neath ermined robes, which she Hath borrowed from some wintry quean, Instead of dancing on the green-- A village maiden fair and free.

Oh! we have spoiled her with our praise, And made her froward, false, and vain; So that her cold blue eyes disdain To smile as in the earlier days.

Let her beware--the world full soon Like me shall tearless turn away, And woo, instead of thine, O May! The brown, bright, joyous eyes of June.

O June! forgive the long delay, My heart's deceptive dream is o'er-- Where I believe I will adore, Nor worship June, yet kneel to May.

SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER.

Summer is a glorious season Warm, and bright, and pleasant; But the Past is not a reason To despise the Present. So while health can climb the mountain, And the log lights up the hall, There are sunny days in Winter, after all!

Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us, Maiden-like in charms; Summer, too, with all her promise, Perished in our arms. But the memory of the vanished, Whom our hearts recall, Maketh sunny days in Winter, after all!

True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh, All the best are dead; But the wall-flower still perfumeth Yonder garden-bed. And the arbutus pearl-blossom'd Hangs its coral ball-- There are sunny days in Winter, after all!

Summer trees are pretty,--very, And love them well: But this holly's glistening berry, None of those excel. While the fir can warm the landscape, And the ivy clothes the wall, There are sunny days in Winter, after all!

Sunny hours in every season Wait the innocent-- Those who taste with love and reason What their God hath sent. Those who neither soar too highly, Nor too lowly fall, Feel the sunny days of Winter, after all!

Then, although our darling treasures Vanish from the heart; Then, although our once-loved pleasures One by one depart; Though the tomb looms in the distance, And the mourning pall, There is sunshine, and no Winter, after all!

THE BIRTH OF THE SPRING.

O Kathleen, my darling, I've dreamt such a dream, 'Tis as hopeful and bright as the summer's first beam: I dreamt that the World, like yourself, darling dear, Had presented a son to the happy New Year! Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered awhile, But like yours was the joy, at her baby's first smile, When the tender nurse, Nature, quick hastened to fling Her sun-mantle round, as she fondled THE SPRING.

O Kathleen, 'twas strange how the elements all, With their friendly regards, condescended to call: The rough rains of winter like summer-dews fell, And the North-wind said, zephyr-like: "Is the World well?" And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell o'er the earth God's goodness to man in this mystical birth; For a Son of this World, and an heir to the King Who rules over man, is this beautiful Spring!

O Kathleen, methought, when the bright babe was born, More lovely than morning appeared the bright morn; The birds sang more sweetly, the grass greener grew, And with buds and with blossoms the old trees looked new; And methought when the Priest of the Universe came-- The Sun--in his vestments of glory and flame, He was seen, the warm raindrops of April to fling On the brow of the babe, and baptise him The Spring!

O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! what treasures are piled In the mines of the past for this wonderful Child! The lore of the sages, the lays of the bards, Like a primer, the eye of this infant regards; All the dearly-bought knowledge that cost life and limb, Without price, without peril, is offered to him; And the blithe bee of Progress concealeth its sting, As it offers its sweets to the beautiful Spring!

O Kathleen, they tell us of wonderful things, Of speed that surpasseth the fairy's fleet wings; How the lands of the world in communion are brought, And the slow march of speech is as rapid as thought. Think, think what an heir-loom the great world will be With this wonderful wire 'neath the earth and the sea; When the snows and the sunshine together shall bring All the wealth of the world to the feet of The Spring.

Oh! Kathleen, but think of the birth-gifts of love, That THE MASTER who lives in the GREAT HOUSE above Prepares for the poor child that's born on His land-- Dear God! they're the sweet flowers that fall from Thy hand-- The crocus, the primrose, the violet given Awhile, to make earth the reflection of heaven; The brightness and lightness that round the world wing Are thine, and are ours too, through thee, happy Spring!

O Kathleen, dear Kathleen! that dream is gone by, And I wake once again, but, thank God! thou art by; And the land that we love looks as bright in the beam, Just as if my sweet dream was not all out a dream, The spring-tide of Nature its blessing imparts, Let the spring-tide of Hope send its pulse through our hearts; Let us feel 'tis a mother, to whose breast we cling, And a brother we hail, when we welcome the Spring.

ALL FOOL'S DAY.

The Sun called a beautiful Beam, that was playing At the door of his golden-wall'd palace on high; And he bade him be off, without any delaying, To a fast-fleeting Cloud on the verge of the sky: "You will give him this letter," said roguish Apollo (While a sly little twinkle contracted his eye), With my royal regards; and be sure that you follow Whatsoever his Highness may send in reply."

The Beam heard the order, but being no novice, Took it coolly, of course--nor in this was he wrong-- But was forced (being a clerk in Apollo's post-office) To declare (what a bounce!) that he wouldn't be long; So he went home and dress'd--gave his beard an elision-- Put his scarlet coat on, nicely edged with gold lace; And thus being equipped, with a postman's precision, He prepared to set out on his nebulous race.

Off he posted at last, but just outside the portals He lit on earth's high-soaring bird in the dark; So he tarried a little, like many frail mortals, Who, when sent on an errand, first go on a lark; But he broke from the bird--reach'd the cloud in a minute-- Gave the letter and all, as Apollo ordained; But the Sun's correspondent, on looking within it, Found, "Send the fool farther," was all it contained.

The Cloud, who was up to all mystification, Quite a humorist, saw the intent of the Sun; And was ever too airy--though lofty his station-- To spoil the least taste of the prospect of fun; So he hemm'd, and he haw'd--took a roll of pure vapour, Which the light from the beam made as bright as could be, (Like a sheet of the whitest cream golden-edg'd paper), And wrote a few words, superscribed, "To the Sea."

"My dear Beam," or "dear Ray" (t'was thus coolly he hailed him), "Pray take down to Neptune this letter from me, For the person you seek--though I lately regaled him-- Now tries a new airing, and dwells by the sea." So our Mercury hastened away through the ether, The bright face of Thetis to gladden and greet; And he plunged in the water a few feet beneath her, Just to get a sly peep at her beautiful feet.

To Neptune the letter was brought for inspection-- But the god, though a deep one, was still rather green; So he took a few moments of steady reflection, Ere he wholly made out what the missive could mean: But the date (it was "April the first") came to save it From all fear of mistake; so he took pen in hand, And, transcribing the cruel entreaty, he gave it To our travel-tired friend, and said, "Bring it to Land."

To Land went the Sunbeam, which scarcely received it, When it sent it, post-haste, back again to the sea; The Sea's hypocritical calmness deceived it, And sent it once more to the Land on the lea;-- From the Land to the Lake--from the Lakes to the Fountains-- From the Fountains and Streams to the Hills' azure crest, 'Till, at last, a tall Peak on the top of the mountains, Sent it back to the Cloud in the now golden west.

He saw the whole trick by the way he was greeted By the Sun's laughing face, which all purple appears; Then, amused, yet annoyed at the way he was treated, He first laughed at the joke, and then burst into tears. It is thus that this day of mistakes and surprises, When fools write on foolscap, and wear it the while, This gay saturnalia for ever arises 'Mid the showers and the sunshine, the tear and the smile.

DARRYNANE.

[Written in 1844, after a visit to Darrynane Abbey.]

Where foams the white torrent, and rushes the rill, Down the murmuring slopes of the echoing hill-- Where the eagle looks out from his cloud-crested crags, And the caverns resound with the panting of stags-- Where the brow of the mountain is purple with heath, And the mighty Atlantic rolls proudly beneath, With the foam of its waves like the snowy 'fenane'--[114] Oh! that is the region of wild Darrynane!

Oh! fair are the islets of tranquil Glengariff, And wild are the sacred recesses of Scariff, And beauty, and wildness, and grandeur commingle By Bantry's broad bosom, and wave-wasted Dingle; But wild as the wildest, and fair as the fairest, And lit by a lustre that thou alone wearest-- And dear to the eye and the free heart of man Are the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane!

And who is the Chief of this lordly domain? Does a slave hold the land where a monarch might reign? Oh! no, by St. Finbar,[115] nor cowards, nor slaves, Could live in the sound of these free, dashing waves! A chieftain, the greatest the world has e'er known-- Laurel his coronet--true hearts his throne-- Knowledge his sceptre--a Nation his clan-- O'Connell, the chieftain of proud Darrynane!

A thousand bright streams on the mountains awake, Whose waters unite in O'Donoghue's lake-- Streams of Glanflesk and the dark Gishadine Filling the heart of that valley divine! Then rushing in one mighty artery down To the limitless ocean by murmuring Lowne--[116] Thus Nature unfolds in her mystical plan A type of the Chieftain of wild Darrynane!

In him every pulse of our bosoms unite-- Our hatred of wrong and our worship of right-- The hopes that we cherish, the ills we deplore, All centre within his heart's innermost core, Which, gathered in one mighty current, are flung To the ends of the earth from his thunder-toned tongue! Till the Indian looks up, and the valiant Afghan Draws his sword at the echo from far Darrynane!

But here he is only the friend and the father, Who from children's sweet lips truest wisdom can gather, And seeks from the large heart of Nature to borrow Rest for the present and strength for the morrow! Oh! who that e'er saw him with children about him And heard his soft tones of affection could doubt him? My life on the truth of the heart of that man That throbs like the Chieftain's of wild Darrynane!

Oh! wild Darrynane, on thy ocean-washed shore, Shall the glad song of mariners echo once more? Shall the merchants, and minstrels, and maidens of Spain, Once again in their swift ships come over the main? Shall the soft lute be heard, and the gay youths of France Lead our blue-eyed young maidens again to the dance? Graceful and shy as thy fawns, Killenane,[117] Are the mind-moulded maidens of far Darrynane!

Dear land of the south, as my mind wandered o'er All the joys I have felt by thy magical shore, From those lakes of enchantment by oak-clad Glena To the mountainous passes of bold Iveragh! Like birds which are lured to a haven of rest, By those rocks far away on the ocean's bright breast--[118] Thus my thoughts loved to linger, as memory ran O'er the mountains and valleys of wild Darrynane!

114. "In the mountains of Slievelougher, and other parts of this county, the country people, towards the end of June, cut the coarse mountain grass, called by them 'fenane'; towards August this grass grows white."--Smith's Kerry.

115. The abbey on the grounds of Darrynane was founded in the seventh century by the monks of St. Finbar.

116. The river Lowne is the only outlet by which all the streams that form the Lakes of Killarney discharge themselves into the sea--'Lan,' or 'Lowne,' in the old Irish signifying full.

117. "Killenane lies to the east of Cahir. It has many mountains towards the sea. These mountains are frequented by herds of fallow deer, that range about it in perfect security."--Smith's Kerry.

118. The Skellig Rocks. In describing one of them, Keating says "That there is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all the birds which attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to alight upon the rock."

A SHAMROCK FROM THE IRISH SHORE.

(On receiving a Shamrock in a Letter from Ireland.)

O postman! speed thy tardy gait-- Go quicker round from door to door; For thee I watch, for thee I wait, Like many a weary wanderer more. Thou brightest news of bale and bliss-- Some life begun, some life well o'er. He stops--he rings!--O heaven! what's this?-- A shamrock from the Irish shore!

Dear emblem of my native land, By fresh fond words kept fresh and green; The pressure of an unfelt hand-- The kisses of a lip unseen; A throb from my dead mother's heart-- My father's smile revived once more-- Oh, youth! oh, love! oh, hope thou art, Sweet shamrock from the Irish shore!

Enchanter, with thy wand of power, Thou mak'st the past be present still: The emerald lawn--the lime-leaved bower-- The circling shore--the sunlit hill; The grass, in winter's wintriest hours, By dewy daisies dimpled o'er, Half hiding, 'neath their trembling flowers, The shamrock of the Irish shore!

And thus, where'er my footsteps strayed, By queenly Florence, kingly Rome-- By Padua's long and lone arcade-- By Ischia's fires and Adria's foam-- By Spezzia's fatal waves that kissed My poet sailing calmly o'er; By all, by each, I mourned and missed The shamrock of the Irish shore!

I saw the palm-tree stand aloof, Irresolute 'twixt the sand and sea: I saw upon the trellised roof Outspread the wine that was to be; A giant-flowered and glorious tree I saw the tall magnolia soar; But there, even there, I longed for thee, Poor shamrock of the Irish shore!

Now on the ramparts of Boulogne, As lately by the lonely Rance, At evening as I watch the sun, I look! I dream! Can this be France Not Albion's cliffs, how near they be, He seems to love to linger o'er; But gilds, by a remoter sea, The shamrock on the Irish shore!

I'm with him in that wholesome clime-- That fruitful soil, that verdurous sod-- Where hearts unstained by vulgar crime Have still a simple faith in God: Hearts that in pleasure and in pain, The more they're trod rebound the more, Like thee, when wet with heaven's own rain, O shamrock of the Irish shore!

Memorial of my native land, True emblem of my land and race-- Thy small and tender leaves expand But only in thy native place. Thou needest for thyself and seed Soft dews around, kind sunshine o'er; Transplanted thou'rt the merest weed, O shamrock of the Irish shore.

Here on the tawny fields of France, Or in the rank, red English clay, Thou showest a stronger form perchance; A bolder front thou mayest display, More able to resist the scythe That cut so keen, so sharp before; But then thou art no more the blithe Bright shamrock of the Irish shore!

Ah, me! to think--thy scorns, thy slights, Thy trampled tears, thy nameless grave On Fredericksburg's ensanguined heights, Or by Potomac's purpled wave! Ah, me! to think that power malign Thus turns thy sweet green sap to gore, And what calm rapture might be thine, Sweet shamrock of the Irish shore!

Struggling, and yet for strife unmeet, True type of trustful love thou art; Thou liest the whole year at my feet, To live but one day at my heart. One day of festal pride to lie Upon the loved one's heart--what more? Upon the loved one's heart to die, O shamrock of the Irish shore!

And shall I not return thy love? And shalt thou not, as thou shouldst, be Placed on thy son's proud heart above The red rose or the fleur-de-lis? Yes, from these heights the waters beat, I vow to press thy cheek once more, And lie for ever at thy feet, O shamrock of the Irish shore!

Boulogne-sur-Mer, March 17, 1865.

ITALIAN MYRTLES.

[Suggested by seeing for the first time fire-flies in the myrtle hedges at Spezzia.]

By many a soft Ligurian bay The myrtles glisten green and bright, Gleam with their flowers of snow by day, And glow with fire-flies through the night, And yet, despite the cold and heat, Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.

There is an island in the West, Where living myrtles bloom and blow, Hearts where the fire-fly Love my rest Within a paradise of snow-- Which yet, despite the cold and heat, Are ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.

Deep in that gentle breast of thine-- Like fire and snow within the pearl-- Let purity and love combine, O warm, pure-hearted Irish girl! And in the cold and in the heat Be ever fresh, and pure, and sweet.

Thy bosom bears as pure a snow As e'er Italia's bowers can boast, And though no fire-fly lends its glow-- As on the soft Ligurian coast-- 'Tis warmed by an internal heat Which ever keeps it pure and sweet.

The fire-flies fade on misty eves-- The inner fires alone endure; Like rain that wets the leaves, Thy very sorrows keep thee pure-- They temper a too ardent heat-- And keep thee ever pure and sweet.

La Spezzia, 1862.

THE IRISH EMIGRANT'S MOTHER.

"Oh! come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; Oh! come with me, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, Who, prattling climb thy ag'ed knees, and call thy daughter--mother.

"Oh come, and leave this land of death--this isle of desolation-- This speck upon the sunbright face of God's sublime creation, Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most malign hath risen, When Labour seeks the poorhouse, and Innocence the prison.

"'Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the husky wheat is bending; 'Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better time is sending; 'Tis true the island's aged face looks happier and younger, But in the best of days we've known the sickness and the hunger.

"When health breathed out in every breeze, too oft we've known the fever-- Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand of the bereaver: Too well remember many a time the mournful task that brought him, When freshness fanned the summer air, and cooled the glow of autumn.

"But then the trial, though severe, still testified our patience, We bowed with mingled hope and fear to God's wise dispensations; We felt the gloomiest time was both a promise and a warning, Just as the darkest hour of night is herald of the morning.

"But now through all the black expanse no hopeful morning breaketh-- No bird of promise in our hearts the gladsome song awaketh; No far-off gleams of good light up the hills of expectation-- Nought but the gloom that might precede the world's annihilation.

"So, mother, turn thy ag'ed feet, and let our children lead 'em Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty and to freedom; Forgetting nought of all the past, yet all the past forgiving; Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly unto the living.

"They tell us, they who read and think of Ireland's ancient story, How once its emerald flag flung out a sunburst's fleeting glory Oh! if that sun will pierce no more the dark clouds that efface it, Fly where the rising stars of heaven commingle to replace it.

"So come, my mother, come away, across the sea-green water; Oh! come with us, and come with him, the husband of thy daughter; Oh! come with us, and come with them, the sister and the brother, Who, prattling, climb thy ag'ed knees, and call thy daughter--mother."

"Ah! go, my children, go away--obey this inspiration; Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies; Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's.

"But though I feel how sharp the pang from thee and thine to sever, To look upon these darling ones the last time and for ever; Yet in this sad and dark old land, by desolation haunted, My heart has struck its roots too deep ever to be transplanted.

"A thousand fibres still have life, although the trunk is dying, They twine around the yet green grave where thy father's bones are lying; Ah! from that sad and sweet embrace no soil on earth can loose 'em, Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, and golden sands its bosom.

"Others are twined around the stone, where ivy-blossoms smother The crumbling lines that trace your names, my father and my mother; God's blessing be upon their souls--God grant, my old heart prayeth, Their names be written in the Book whose writing ne'er decayeth.

"Alas! my prayers would never warm within those great cold buildings, Those grand cathedral churches with their marbles and their gildings; Far fitter than the proudest dome that would hang in splendour o'er me, Is the simple chapel's white-washed wall, where my people knelt before me.

"No doubt it is a glorious land to which you now are going, Like that which God bestowed of old, with milk and honey flowing; But where are the blessed saints of God, whose lives of his law remind me, Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columkille, in the land I'd leave behind me?

"So leave me here, my children, with my old ways and old notions; Leave me here in peace, with my memories and devotions; Leave me in sight of your father's grave, and as the heavens allied us, Let not, since we were joined in life, even the grave divide us.

"There's not a week but I can hear how you prosper better and better, For the mighty fire-ships o'er the sea will bring the expected letter; And if I need aught for my simple wants, my food or my winter firing, You will gladly spare from your growing store a little for my requiring.

"Remember with a pitying love the hapless land that bore you; At every festal season be its gentle form before you; When the Christmas candle is lighted, and the holly and ivy glisten, Let your eye look back for a vanished face--for a voice that is silent, listen!

"So go, my children, go away--obey this inspiration; Go, with the mantling hopes of health and youthful expectation; Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and plough the expectant prairies; Go, in the sacred name of God, and the Blessed Virgin Mary's."

THE RAIN: A SONG OF PEACE.[119]

The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain-- Welcome, welcome, it cometh again; It cometh with green to gladden the plain, And to wake the sweets in the winding lane.

The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, It fills the flowers to their tiniest vein, Till they rise from the sod whereon they had lain-- Ah, me! ah, me! like an army slain.

The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, Each drop is a link of a diamond chain That unites the earth with its sin and its stain To the radiant realm where God doth reign.

The Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, Each drop is a tear not shed in vain, Which the angels weep for the golden grain All trodden to death on the gory plain;

For Rain, the Rain, the beautiful Rain, Will waken the golden seeds again! But, ah! what power will revive the slain, Stark lying death over fair Lorraine?

'Twere better far, O beautiful Rain, That you swelled the torrent and flooded the main; And that Winter, with all his spectral train, Alone lay camped on the icy plain.

For then, O Rain, O beautiful Rain, The snow-flag of peace were unfurl'd again; And the truce would be rung in each loud refrain Of the blast replacing the bugle's strain.

Then welcome, welcome, beautiful Rain, Thou bringest flowers to the parched-up plain; Oh! for many a frenzied heart and brain, Bring peace and love to the world again!

August 28, 1870.

119. Written during the Franco-German war.

M. H. Gill & Sons, Printers, Dublin.

Transcriber's Notes.

Source. The collection of poems here presented follows as closely as possible the 1882 first edition. I assembled this e-text over several years, either typing or scanning one poem at a time as the spirit moved me. Some poems were transcribed either from the 1884 second edition, or from D. F. MacCarthy's earlier publications, depending on whatever happened to be handy at the time. I have proofread this entire e-text against the 1882 edition. In many instances there are minor variations, mostly in punctuation, among the different source material. In some cases, if the 1882 edition clearly has an error, I have used the other works as a guide. Where there are variations that are not obviously errors, I have followed the 1882 edition. It is certainly possible, where I transcribed from a non-1882 source, that a few variations may have slipt my notice, and have not been changed.

General. In the printed source the first word of each section and poem is in "small capitals," which I have removed as per Project Gutenberg standards. Elsewhere instances of small capitals are rendered as ALL CAPITALS. In the printed source the patronymic prefix "Mac" is always followed by a half space; due to limitations in this electronic format I have rendered names in ALL CAPITALS with a full space (MAC CAURA) and names in Mixed Capitals without any space (MacCaura) throughout. In this plain-text file, italics in the original publication have been either indicated with "double quotes" or 'single quotes' if contextually appropriate; otherwise they have simply been dropt. Accents and other diacritical marks have also been dropt. However, where the original has an accent over the "e" in a past participle for poetical reasons, I have marked an e-acute with an apostrophe (as in "belov'ed") and marked an e-grave with a grave accent (as in "charm`ed") to indicate the intended pronunciation. For a fully formatted version, with italics, extended characters, et cetera, please refer to the HTML version of this collection of poetry, released by Project Gutenberg simultaneously with this plain text edition. The longest line in this plain-text file is 72 characters; this means that in some poems I had to wrap the ends of very long verses to the next line.

Footnotes. In the printed source footnotes are marked with an asterisk, dagger, et cetera and placed at the bottom of each page. In this electronic version I have numbered the footnotes and placed them below each section or poem.

Contents. I have removed the page numbers from the contents list. Text in brackets are my additions, giving alternate/earlier published titles for the poems.

Waiting for the May. This poem was published under the title of "Summer Longings" in "The Bell-Founder and Other Poems," 1857.

Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird. This poem was published under the title of "Home Preference" in The Bell-Founder and Other Poems, 1857.

Ferdiah. The ballad between Mave and Ferdiah includes some long lines of text that would require (due to electronic publishing line length standards) occasionally breaking a line ending to make a new line. Because there is an internal rhyme in these lines, and for more consistent formatting, I have decided to break every line here at the internal rhyme, but not capitalizing the beginning of resultant new line. For example, "Which many an arm less brave than thine, which many a heart less bold, would claim?" is one line of verse in the 1882 edition, but I have formatted it as "Which many an arm less brave than thine, / which many a heart less bold, would claim?" For purposes of recording errata below, I have not numbered these new pseudo-lines. The word "creit" is taken directly from the Irish text untranslated--a roughly equivalent English word is "frame."

The Voyage of St. Brendan. Note 56 refers to a puffin (Anas leucopsis) or 'girrinna.' The bird, at least by 2004 classification, is not a puffin but a barnacle goose (Branta leucopsis) and I found one reference to its Irish name as 'ge ghiurain.' As these birds nest in remote areas of the arctic, people were quite free to invent stories of their origins.

The Dead Tribune. The subject of this poem is Daniel O'Connell (1775-1847), an Irish political leader and Minister of Parliament. In ill health, his doctor advised he go to a warmer climate; he died en route to Rome for a pilgrimage. The 1882 edition has the word "knawing" which is an obsolete variant of "gnawing"; the latter appears in the 1884 edition.

A Mystery. The spelling of "Istambol" is intentional--the current "Istanbul" was not adopted until the twentieth century. The name probably derives from an old nickname for Constantinople, but the complexity of this city's naming is beyond the capacity of a footnote.

To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. MacCarthy's translation of Calderon's "The Two Lovers of Heaven: Chrysanthus and Daria" has been released as Project Gutenberg e-text #12173.

To Ethna. This poem was published under the listing of "Dedicatory Sonnet" and dated 1850 in The Bell-Founder and Other Poems, 1857.

O'Connell. See note a few lines up on "The Dead Tribune." My correction of the phrase "heaven's high fault" is not based on any other published edition. It is conjectural, based on the illogicality of the phrase and MacCarthy's use of the phrase "heaven's high vault" in his translation of Calderon's "The Purgatory of St. Patrick" (Project Gutenberg e-text #6371) published two years before this poem was written.

Moore. The subject of this poem is Thomas Moore (1779-1852). A collection of his poems has been released as Project Gutenberg e-text #8187, but note that the biographical sketch therein mistakenly lists 1780 as his birth year. In this poem "Shakspere" is not misspelt; it is one of many variants used during and after the bard's lifetime (my favorite is "Shaxpere" from 1582).

To Ethna. This poem bears the same title as a sonnet, also in this collection of poems.

The Irish Emigrant's Mother. This poem was published under the title of "The Emigrants" in The Bell-Founder and Other Poems, 1857.

Errata.

Printer's errors found in the 1882 edition have been corrected in this electronic edition. While I have no desire to standardize Mr. MacCarthy's spelling or curtail his poetic license, in some cases where I could not find a documented variant matching the printed source I have replaced it and listed the change here. Occasionally I have inserted punctuation where it is obviously missing. Naturally it is possible that some of these "corrections" are themselves erroneous. When in doubt about either a spelling or punctuation error, I have followed the text of the original. The list below does not include minor corrections (punctuation and capitalization) in notes or introductions.

The [original text is in brackets] and {corrected text is in braces} below.

Contents. [The Year King] {The Year-King} / [The Awakening] {The Awaking} / [The Voice and the Pen] {The Voice and Pen}

Waiting for the May. line 9 [longing] {longing,}

Kate of Kenmare. line 37 [and] {land}

A Lament. line 117 [strewn] {strown}

Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird. line 35 [home] {home,}

The Fireside. line 20 [fireside.] {fireside!}

Autumn Fears. line 40 [field] {field!} / line 48 [field] {field!}

Ferdiah. line 69 [birds sing] {bird sings} / line 590 [ogether] {Together} / line 1007 [gle] {glen} / line 1229 [be.'] {be."}

The Voyage of St. Brendan. note 64 [tanagar] {tanager} / note 65 [driole] {oriole}

The Foray of Con O'Donnell. line 347 [and come] {and some} / line 407 [seagull] {sea gull}

The Bell-Founder. subheader [Vicissitude and Rest.] {Part III.--Vicissitude and Rest.}

Alice and Una. line 77 [Glengarifl's] {Glengariff's} / note 100 [Digialis] {Digitalis}

The Voice and Pen. line 35 [orator s] {orator's}

The Arraying. line 59 [verduous] {verdurous}

Welcome, May. line 30 [footseps] {footsteps}

The Progress of the Rose. line 65 [beateous] {beauteous}

The Year-King. line 114 [iu] {in}

The Awaking. line 11 [fear] {fear,} / line 29 [known] {known:}

The First of the Angels. line 32 [grass-bearing; lea] {grass-bearing lea}

Spirit Voices. title [VOICES] {VOICES.} / line 78 [prodnce] {produce}

O'Connell. line 123 [fault] {vault} / line 283 [it] {its}

Moore. line 101 [countr y] {country}

"Not Known". line 39 [Not] {NOT}

The Lay Missioner. line 20 [tis] {'tis}

Recollections. line 94 [hundreth] {hundredth}

Spring Flowers from Ireland. line 96 [own] {own.}

The Birth of the Spring. line 21 [When] {when} / line 29 [nowledge] {knowledge}

Darrynane. line 30 [Lowne?] {Lowne--} / line 52 [main] {main?}

The Irish Emigrant's Mother. line 10 [Tis] {'Tis}

The Rain: a Song of Peace. line 32 [again] {again!}