Part 4
+A SPANISH BALLAD, 1492.+
I.
Ho! Spaniards! rise for Liberty--your country on ye calls, To fight to-day, in proud array, before Granáda's walls; A proud array is here to-day, full fifty thousand strong, Of Fantassins and Cavaliers Gonzalo leads along.
II.
From Leon to Granáda--from Corunna to Seville, Gather, Spaniards, gather, by the banks of the Xenil! Eight hundred years of blood and tears beneath a foreign sway-- Eight hundred years of blood and tears must be avenged to-day.
III.
Think of your ancient glory, Oh ye lions of León! And how in ancient story your great lion name was won; Think of Zamora's conquest field, and royal Douro's flood-- How ye bridged with Moslem corses, and swam it in their blood.
IV.
And, mountaineers, have ye no tears to be avenged to-day-- Asturians, and Gallicians, and wild dwellers by Vizcày? Ye, the unconquered remnant of the brave old Celtic race-- For ne'er could Roman, Goth, or Moor, your nationhood efface.
V.
Ye, too, proud Gothic nobles! by your memories as men, Will never fail, or shrink, or quail to meet the Saracen; Ye, 'fore whose conquering arm were the bravest forced to yield, Who smote the Suevi in their tent--the Romans in the field.
VI.
Now, now, oh, shame and misery! a stranger rules your lands!-- A stranger's spoil is your native soil--a stranger's voice commands; Ye, princes once and chieftains, ere the false foe crossed the flood, Now, drawers of their water and base hewers of their wood!
VII.
And, Adalusian Brothers, of the old Vandalic race, Will ye alone 'midst Spaniards, be proud of your disgrace? They flatter, fawn, but hate you, these proud foes to whom you've sold Your Liberty for mocking smiles--your country for their gold.
VIII.
They own your stately palaces, they desecrate your shrines, They trample on your vineyards, yet ye stoop to drink their wines; Ye wear their silk, their gold, their gems, and to their feasts ye run; Now shame for ye, my brothers, is it thus that Freedom's won?
IX.
Back to your wild sierras, better die there in your homes Than cringingly bow low beneath your masters' haughty domes; Their Syrian silks, their Indiam gems, go--fling them to the sea, But keep their Syrian steel, for it will help to set us free.
X.
Oh! by your ancient memories, rise Prince, and Peer, and Chief-- Smite down the foe that wrought our woe at Gebel el Taríf. The robber horde awaits your sword--draw, Spaniards! for your land! The crown ye lost by Roderic, regain it by Fernand!
XI.
No coward fears--eight hundred years ye've lived as slaves, not men; But swords makes bright each chartered right--ye'll have your own again. Brave hearts and leal of proud Castile--Revenge, on Mauritania! Rend earth and sky with your gathering cry: Charge! Cierra Espana!
XII.
As tempests sweep the surging deep, thus on the Moorish ranks Dashes the Spanish chivalry; they charge on van and flanks. From Calpe's rock the thunder-shock re-echoes o'er the main-- Now, God and Santiago, for our Liberty and Spain!
XIII.
Little they think of mercy, these slaves of eight hundred years; Never they spare a foeman, these hold true Iberian spears. Crescènted hosts your taunting boasts this day find answer meet, For the light of Heaven is darkened by the dust of your flying feet.
XIV.
Granàda falls! From the Castle walls tear down the Alien's rag-- On turret and Alcàzar, comrades, up with our ancient flag! It floats from the proud Alhambra! Thank God, we've lived to see Our ancient standard waving once again above the Free!
XV.
Pass out, ye weeping people; aye, weep--for never more Shall ye gather in Granàda by the sound of Atambór; For, by the rood, ye Moslem brood, we swore it in Castile, Never again should Spain be ruled by foreign Alquazil.
XVI.
O Moorish King! by suffering thou has earned a name to-day[4]-- But we give thee life, Abdallah; pass onwards on thy way. Accursed race, the foul disgrace thy rule hath brought on Spain, Is cleansed away in blood to-day--we drive thee 'cross the main.
XVII.
By Elvira's gate he goeth, all solemnly and slow-- One last look at Granàda, ere they pass that gate of woe. "Oh, better far thy scimitar had laid thee with the dead, Than weep for what thou could'st not keep"--the proud Zoràya said.[5]
XVIII.
Allah, Allah Hu Akbar! what sorrow like my sorrow? Thus he goeth weeping by the way of Alpujarras; Allah, Allah Hu Akbar! on his tomb is written down-- The King who lost a Kingdom when great Spain regained her Crown.
WHO WILL SHOW US ANY GOOD?
I.
Beautiful Ireland! Who will preach to thee? Souls are waiting for lips to vow; And outstretched hands, that fain would reach to thee, Yearn to help, if they knew but how, To lift the thorn-wreath off thy brow.
II.
Passionate dreamers have fought and died for thee, Poets poured forth their lava song; But dreamer and poet have failed as a guide for thee-- Still are unriven the chains of wrong.
III.
Suffering Ireland! Martyr-Nation! Blind with tears thick as mountain mist; Can none amidst all the new generation Change them to glory, as hills sun-kissed Flash lights of opal and amethyst?
IV.
Welcome a Hero! A man to lead for us, Sifting true men from chaff and weeds; Daring and doing as those who, indeed, for us. Proved their zeal by their life and deeds.
V.
Desolate Ireland! Saddest of mothers, Waits and weeps in her island home; But the Western Land--has she help for others Who feeds her eagles on blood of brothers? Not with cannon or roll of drum, Or foreign flag can our triumph come.
VI.
Why seek aid from the arm of a stranger? Trust thy sons, O Mother! for good; Braver can none be in hours of danger, Proudly claiming thy rights withstood.
VII.
Then, Ireland! wake from thy vain despairing! Grand the uses of life may be; Heights can be reached by heroic daring, Crowns are won by the brave and free, And Nations create their own destiny.
VIII.
But, Time and the hour fleet fast unbidden, A turbid stream over golden sands; And too often the gold is scattered or hidden, While we stand by with listless hands.
IX.
Then seize the least grain as it glistens and passes, Swift and sure is that river's flight: The glory of morning the bright wave glasses, But the gold and glory soon fade from sight, And noon-tide splendours will change to night.
X.
Ah! life is too brief for languor or quarrel, Second by second the dead drop down; And souls, all eager to strive for the laurel, Faint and fall ere they win the crown.
XI.
Ireland rests mid the rush of progression, As a frozen ship in a frozen sea; And the changeless stillness of life's stagnation, Is worse than the wildest waves could be, Rending the rocks eternally.
XII.
Then, trumpet-tongued, to a people sleeping, Who will speak with magic command, Bidding them rise--these dead men, keeping Watch by the dead in a silent land?
XIII.
Grandly, solemnly, earnestly preaching, Man's great gospel of Truth and light; With lips like saints' in their love beseeching, Hands as strong as a prophet's to smite The foes to Humanity's sacred right.
XIV.
Earth is thrilling with new aspirations, Rending the fetters that bar and ban; But we alone of the Christian nations Fall to the rear in the march of Man.
XV.
Alas! can I help? but a nameless singer-- Weak the words of a woman to save; We wait the advent of some light-bringer, Strong to roll the stone from the grave, And summon to life the death-bound slave.
XVI.
Down from heights of the Infinite drifting, Raising the prisoned soul from gloom; Like the white angels of God uplifting Seal and stone from the Saviour's tomb.
XVII.
Yet, hear me now, for a Nation pleading; Strike! but with swords yet keener than steel; Flash on the path the new Age is treading, As sparks from grooves of the iron wheel, In star-flames its onward march reveal.
XVIII.
Work by the shore where our broad ocean rages, Bridging it over by wraiths of steam; Linking two worlds by a chain that sages Forged in the heat of a science dream.
XIX.
For Nature has stamped us with brand immortal, Highway of nations our Land must be: We hold the keys of the Old-world portal, We guard the pass of the Western Sea-- Ireland, sole in her majesty!
XX.
Work! there is work for the thinker and doer, And glory for all when the goal is won; So we are true to our Country, or truer Than Planets are to the central Sun.
XXI.
Call from the hills our own Irish Eagle, Spread its plumes on the "The Green" of old; With a sunrise blaze, as a mantle regal, Turning the dusk-brown wings to gold-- Symbol and flag be it then unrolled!
XXII.
Face Heaven's light with as proud a daring, Tread the heights with a step as grand, Breast the wild storm with brave hearts unfearing As kings might do for their rightful land.
XXIII.
Irish daring by land and by river, Irish wealth from mountain and mine, Irish courage so strong to deliver, Irish love as strong to combine Separate chords in one strain divine;
XXIV.
These are the forces of conquering power, Chains to sever, if slaves we be; Then strike in your might, O Men of the hour! And Ireland springs on the path of the free!
A LAMENT FOR THE POTATO.
A.D. 1739.
(FROM THE IRISH).
There is woe, there is clamour, in our desolated land, And wailing lamentation from a famine-stricken band; And weeping are the multitudes in sorrow and despair, For the green fields of Munster lying desolate and bare.
Woe for Lorc's[6] ancient kingdom, sunk in slavery and grief; Plundered, ruined, are our gentry, our people, and their Chief; For the harvest lieth scattered, more worth to us than gold, All the kindly food that nourished both the young and the old.
Well I mind me of the cosherings, where princes might dine, And we drank until nightfall the best seven sorts of wine; Yet was ever the Potato our old, familiar dish, And the best of all sauces with the beeves and the fish.
But the harp now is silent, no one careth for the sound; No flowers, no sweet honey, and no beauty can be found; Not a bird its music thrilling through the leaves of the wood, Nought but weeping and hands wringing in despair for our food.
And the Heavens, all in darkness, seem lamenting our doom, No brightness in the sunlight, not a ray to pierce the gloom; The cataract comes rushing with a fearful deepened roar, And ocean bursts its boundaries, dashing wildly on the shore.
Yet, in misery and want, we have one protecting man, Kindly Barry, of Fitzstephen's old hospitable clan; By mount and river working deeds of charity and grace: Blessings ever on our champion, best hero of his race!
Save us, God! In Thy mercy bend to hear the people's cry, From the famine-stricken fields, rising bitterly on high; Let the mourning and the clamour cease in Lorc's ancient land, And shield us in the death-hour by Thy strong, protecting hand![7]
HAVE WE DONE WELL FOR IRELAND?
O country, writhing in thy chain With fierce, wild efforts to be free, Not seeing that with every strain The bonds close firmer over thee; Or grasping blindly in thy hate The temple pillars of the State, To hurl them down on friend and foe, Crushed in one common overthrow-- Can none of all thy Poet band Preach nobler aims, loved Ireland?
As David drove with magic chords The Evil Spirit back to night; As Moses by his mighty words Led Egypt's bondmen up to light; Hast thou no Poet, strong to calm Thy troubled soul with holy psalm? Or trusted Chief, who, safely on Across the fatal Rubicon, Could lead thee with pure heart and hand To Freedom--my own Ireland?
By those doomed men, in dull despair Slow wasting in a dungeon's gloom; By all youth's fiery heart can dare Quenched in the prison's living tomb-- By the corroding felon chain, That tortures with Promethean pain Of vultures gnawing at the core Of their lost lives for evermore-- I ask you, People of our Land, Have ye done well for Ireland?
By History traced on dungeon walls, By scaffolds, chains, and exiles' tears, Slow marking, as the shadow falls, The mournful sequence of the years; By genius crushed and progress barred, By noble aspirations marred, Till with a smouldering fire's life They burn in deadly hate and strife-- I ask you, Rulers of our Land, Have ye done well for Ireland?
O Men! these men are brothers too, Tho' frenzied by a fatal dream, Their living souls were meant to do Some noble work in God's great scheme, Perchance to hew down, branch and root, The tree that bore such bitter fruit; But, left unguided in the Right, They grope out blindly in the night Of their dark passions; striking down Their Country's proud hopes with their own.
But now, ye say, the Land hath rest-- Aye, with the death weights on her eyes; And fettered arms across her breast, And mail'd hands stifling down her cries. So rests a corpse within the grave O'er which the charnal grasses wave. Oh, better far some kindly word To stay the vengeance-lifted sword, Or Love, with queenly, outstretched hand, To soothe thee--fated Ireland!
WILLIAM CARLETON.
+DIED, JANUARY 30TH, 1869.+
Our land has lost a glory! Never more, Tho' years roll on, can Ireland hope to see Another Carleton, cradled in the lore Of our loved Country's rich humanity. The weird traditions, the old, plaintive strain, The murmured legends of a vengeful past, When a down-trodden people strove in vain To rend the fetters centuries made fast;
These, with the song and dance and tender tale, Linked to our ancient music, have swept on And died in far-off echoes, like the wail Of Israel's broken Harps in Babylon. No hand like his can wake them now, for he Sprang from amidst the people: bathed his soul In their strong passions, stormy as the sea, And wild as skies before the thunder-roll.
Yet, was he gentle; with divinest art And tears that shook his nature over much, He struck the key-note of a people's heart, And all the nation answered to his touch, Even as he swayed them, giving smiles for gloom, And childlike tenderness for hate that kills-- As rain clouds threat'ning with a weight of doom Flash sudden, silver light upon the hills.
But, he had faults--men said. Oh, fling them back, These cold deductions, marring praise with blame; When earthquakes rend the rocks they leave a track For central fires issuing forth in flame; And by the passionate heat of gifted minds The ruddest stones are crystallised to gems Of glorious worth, such as a poet binds Upon his brow, right royal diadems!
Like the great image of the Monarch's dream, Genius lifts up on high the head of gold, And cleaves with iron limbs Time's mighty stream, Tho' all too deep the feet may press earth's mould. Yet, by his gifts made dedicate to God In noblest teachings of each gentle grace, Through every land that Irishmen have trod We claim for him the homage of our race.
With pen of light he drew great pictures when Nothing but scorn was ours; and without fear He flung them down before the face of men, Saying, in words the whole world paused to hear: So brave, so pure, so noble, grand, and true Is this, our Irish People. Thus he gave His fame to build our glory, and undo The taunts of ages,--strong to lift and save.
So, with a nation's gratitude we vow In every Irish heart a shrine shall be To The Great Peasant, on whose deathless brow Rests the star-crown of immortality. The kings of mind, unlike the kings of earth, Can bear their honours with them to illume The grave's dark vault; so Carleton passes forth, As through triumpal arches, to the tomb!
THE NEW PATH.
I.
We stand in the light of a dawning day, With its glory creation flushing; And the life-currents up from the pris'ning clay Through the world's great heart are rushing. While from peak to peak of the spirit land A voice unto voice is calling: The night is over, the day is at hand, And the fetters of earth are falling!
II.
Yet, faces are pale with a mystic fear Of the strife and trouble looming; And we feel that mighty changes are near, Tho' the Lord delayeth his coming. For the rent flags hang from each broken mast, And down in the ocean's surges The shattered wreck of a foundering Past Sinks mid the night wind's dirges.
III.
But the world goes thundering on to the light, Unheeding our vain presages; And nations are cleaving a path to Right Through the mouldering dust of ages. Are we, then, to rest in a chill despair, Unmoved by these new elations; Nor carry the flag of our Island fair In the onward march of nations?
IV.
Shall our hands be folded in slumber, when The bonds and the chains are shattered; As stony and still as enchanted men, In a cave of darkness fettered? The cave may be dark, but we'll flash bright gleams Of the morning's radiance on it, And tread the New Path, tho' the noontide beams, As yet, fall faintly upon it.
V.
For souls are around us, with gifts divine, Unknown and neglected dying; Like the precious ore in a hidden mine, Unworked and as useless lying. We summon them forth to the banded war, The sword of the Spirit using, To come with their forces from near and far, New strength with our strength infusing.
VI.
Let each bear a torch with the foremost bands, Through the Future's dark outgoing; Or stand by the helm, mid the shoals and sands Of the river of life fast flowing. Or as guides on the hills, with a bugle note, Let us warn the mountain ranger Of the chasms that cross and the mists that float O'er his upward path of danger.
VII.
For the chasms are deep, and the river is strong And the tempest is wildly waking; We have need of brave hands to guide us along The path which the Age is taking. With our gold and pearls let us build the State; Faith, courage, and tender pity Are the gems that shine on the golden gate Of the Angels' Heavenly city.
VIII.
O People! so richly endowed with all The splendours of spirit power, With the poet's gift and the minstrel-soul, And the orator's glorious dower; Are hearts not amongst us, or lips to vow, With patriot fervour breathing, To crown with their lustre no alien brow While the thorn our own is wreathing.
IX.
Ev'n lovelier gifts on our lowly poor, Kind Nature lavishly showers, As the gold rain falls on the cottage door, Of the glowing laburnam flowers; The deathless love for their Country and God Undimmed through the ages keeping, Tho' the fairest harvests that grew on our sod Were left for the strangers' reaping.
X.
The gentle grace that to commonest words Gives a rare and tender beauty; With the zeal that would face a thousand swords For their Country, home and duty. Still breathing the prayer for their Motherland Her wrongs and her sorrows taught them; Tho' the scaffold's doom, or the felon-brand, Were the only gifts she brought them.
XI.
But we, let us bring her--as eastern kings, At the foot of Christ low kneeling-- The gold that symbols our costliest things, And myrrh for the spirit's healing Oh, Brothers! be with us, our aim is high, The highest of man's vocation: With these priceless jewels, that round us lie, To build up a noble Nation.
O'CONNELL,
HIBERNIÆ LIBERATOR AD LIMINA APOSTOLORUM PERGENS GENOÆ OBDORMIVIT.
Crowned with a liberated people's love, Crowned by the Nations with eternal fame, His great heart burning still with patriot-fire, Tho' Death's pale shadow rested on his brow, Forth went the mighty Chief from his loved Land, 'Mid the hushed reverence paid to dying Kings, On his last pilgrimage; yearning to find rest For the o'erwearied hero-heart and brain, After great trials pass'd and triumphs won, Within the Temple-City of the World. But, faint with combats of a glorious life, Tho' Freedom's hymns still murmured on his lips, And his dim eyes still tracked the western Sun Would rise on Ireland, but no more for him, Seeking the gates of God's great Church on earth, He found the gates of Heaven, and entered in. There Angels met him with the conqueror's Palm, And passing from the portal to the Throne, Circled with golden glitter of their wings, God crowned him Victor for his work well done!
ASPIRATIONS.
Oh! for pinions to bear me sunward, Ever and ever higher and onward; With a glance of pride, and a wing of might, Cleaving a path through the starry skies, As the soul of a poet that heavenward flies, Daring the depths of the Infinite. Soaring and singing, still upward aspire, Trailing a path through the crimson fire, Bathing in oceans of purple and gold, Treading the glory that men behold, Like far-off fields of Elysian light, Where angels walk in radiance bright; And never to rest till the goal is won, And I furl my wings at the blazing sun-- I alone, the Conquering One!
Then, said Love, I will lend thee mine; And with strange enchantments, and many a sign, He bound on me the wings divine. Onward, onward--higher, higher, Seemed to bear me those wings of fire; Over the earth, the clouds, the moon, Till the portals of Heaven glittered soon. But, ah! too near the Sun of Truth I passed, in the vain, proud spirit of youth; And Love's cement could not, tho' strong, Retain the glowing pinions on; And they fell from my heart, and left it bare; And so I sank down weeping there, Into the fathomless sea of despair.
Long I lay in depth of dole, Till a Voice like a trumpet stirred my soul; My wings, it said, will bear thee far, Over yon highest glittering star. Glorious thoughts of high emprize, These will lift thee to the skies, Where the goal of glory lies. Trust thy own undaunted will, Let ambition's spirit fill All thy being, till no height Seems too distant or too bright, Through the stars of upper air, For a soul like thine to dare.
Then upon my spirit came Flooding glory, like a flame; And I soared away from the mountain height, Filled with a strange and mad delight: Away, away, over march and fen, Over the heads of my fellow-men; Hearing their choral praises rise, As I soared away through the pathless skies, In ever-echoing symphonies. But never a rest till I reached the star Ambition had pointed out afar; Alas! I knew not the dazzling ray Of its glory was made for no mortal sight-- And I sank back dazed with excess of light.
Still the proud wings bore me on, I knew not whether, my sight was gone; But I heard the tempest raging round, And the rolling thunder's terrible sound, As if all fierce passions were unbound. And the wings Ambition had tied so fast, Were rent from my soul by the tempest blast; And down I sank to earth again, Like the dead eagle on the plain, By the blasting lightning slain.
Then I heard a low Voice near, Murmuring softly in my ear:-- Shall I give thee wings of power, Wings that will thy spirit dower, With a strength that, angel-wise, Up will waft thee to the skies? Passing, unscathed, the Sun of Truth, Fatal to wings of Love in sooth; Past the false but glittering light, Whose glory dimm'd thy mortal sight; On, through the trackless firmament, Where the wings Ambition lent, By the stormy winds were rent.
Onward still, and ever higher, Past the solar central fire, Past the hymning angel choir; Till thou standest at the Throne Of the great Eternal One. Ever more to dwell on high, Breathing like a harmony, Through the unnumber'd worlds that lie Far in yon blue Infinity-- Wilt thou have these wings of mine? Murmured that low Voice divine.