PART I.--LABOUR AND HOPE.

POEMS

BY

DENIS FLORENCE MAC CARTHY

DUBLIN

M. H. GILL AND SON,

50 UPPER SACKVILLE STREET

1882

M. H. GILL AND SON, PRINTERS, DUBLIN

Memorial to Denis Florence MacCarthy.

A Committee of friends and admirers of the late Denis Florence MacCarthy

has been formed for the purpose of perpetuating in a fitting manner the

memory of this distinguished Irish poet. Among the contributors to the

Memorial Fund are Cardinal Newman, Cardinal MacCabe, Cardinal MacClosky;

Most Rev. Dr. M'Gettigan, Most Rev. Dr. Croke, Most Rev. Dr. Butler, and

many of the Irish Clergy; Lord O'Hagan, the Marquis of Ripon, Archbishop

Trench, Judge O'Hagan, Sir. C. G. Duffy, Aubrey de Vere, Sir Samuel

Ferguson, and Dr. J. K. Ingram.

Subscriptions will be received by the Lord Mayor, Mansion House,

Dublin; by Dr. James Brady, 38 Harcourt-st; Mr. W. L. Joynt, D. L.,

43 Merrion-square; Rev. C. P. Meehan, SS. Michael and John's; or by

any Member of the Committee.

PREFACE.

This volume contains, besides the poems published in 1850 and 1857,[1]

the odes written for the centenary celebrations in honour of O'Connell

in 1875, and of Moore in 1879. To these are added several sonnets and

miscellaneous poems now first collected, and the episode of "Ferdiah"

translated from the 'Tain Bo Chuailgne.'

Born in Dublin,[2] May 26th, 1817, my father, while still very young,

showed a decided taste for literature. The course of his boyish reading

is indicated in his "Lament." Some verses from his pen, headed "My

Wishes," appeared in the "Dublin Satirist," April 12th, 1834. This was,

as far as I can discover, the earliest of his writings published. To

the journal just mentioned he frequently contributed, both in prose and

verse, during the next two years. The following are some of the

titles:--"The Greenwood Hill;" "Songs of other Days" (Belshazzar's

Feast--Thoughts in the Holy Land--Thoughts of the Past); "Life,"

"Death," "Fables" (The Zephyr and the Sensitive Plant--The

Tulip and the Rose--The Bee and the Rose); "Songs of Birds"

(Nightingale--Eagle--Phoenix--Fire-fly); "Songs of the Winds," &c.

On October 14th, 1843, his first contribution ("Proclamation Songs," No.

1) appeared in the Dublin "Nation." "Here is a song by a new recruit,"

wrote Mr., now Sir, Charles Gavan Duffy, "which we should give in our

leading columns if they were not preoccupied." In the next number I

find "The Battle of Clontarf," with this editorial note: "'Desmond' is

entitled to be enrolled in our national brigade." "A Dream" soon

follows; and at intervals, between this date and 1849--besides many

other poems--all the National songs and most of the Ballads included in

this volume. In April, 1847, "The Bell-Founder" and "The Foray of Con

O'Donnell" appeared in the "University Magazine," in which "Waiting for

the May," "The Bridal of the Year," and "The Voyage of Saint Brendan,"

were subsequently published (in January and May, 1848). Meanwhile, in

1846, the year in which he was called to the bar, he edited the "Poets

and Dramatists of Ireland," with an introduction, which evinced

considerable reading, on the early religion and literature of the Irish

people. In the same year he also edited the "Book of Irish Ballads," to

which he prefixed an introduction on ballad poetry. This volume was

republished with additions and a preface in 1869. In 1853, the poems

afterwards published under the title of "Underglimpses" were chiefly

written.[3]

The plays of Calderon--thoroughly national in form and matter--have met

with but scant appreciation from foreigners. Yet we find his genius

recognized in unexpected quarters, Goethe and Shelley uniting with

Augustus Schlegel and Archbishop Trench to pay him homage. My father

was, I think, first led to the study of Calderon by Shelley's glowing

eulogy of the poet ("Essays," vol. ii., p. 274, and elsewhere). The

first of his translations was published in 1853, the last twenty years

later. They consist[4] of fifteen complete plays, which I believe to be

the largest amount of translated verse by any one author, that has ever

appeared in English. Most of it is in the difficult assonant or vowel

rhyme, hardly ever previously attempted in our language. This may be a

fitting place to cite a few testimonies as to the execution of the work.

Longfellow, whom I have myself heard speak of the "Autos" in a way that

showed how deeply he had studied them in the original, wrote, in 1857:

"You are doing this work admirably, and seem to gain new strength and

sweetness as you go on. It seems as if Calderon himself were behind you

whispering and suggesting. And what better work could you do in your

bright hours or in your dark hours that just this, which seems to have

been put providentially into your hands." Again, in 1862: "Your new

work in the vast and flowery fields of Calderon is, I think, admirable,

and presents the old Spanish dramatist before the English reader in a

very attractive light. Particularly in the most poetical passages you

are excellent; as, for instance, in the fine description of the

gerfalcon and the heron in 'El Mayor Encanto.' I hope you mean to add

more and more, so as to make the translation as nearly complete as a

single life will permit. It seems rather appalling to undertake the

whole of so voluminous a writer; nevertheless, I hope you will do it.

Having proved that you can, perhaps you ought to do it. This may be

your appointed work. It is a noble one."[5] Ticknor ("History of

Spanish Literature," new edition, vol. iii. p. 461) writes thus:

"Calderon is a poet who, whenever he is translated, should have his very

excesses and extravagances, both in thought and manner, fully

reproduced, in order to give a faithful idea of what is grandest and

most distinctive in his genius. Mr. MacCarthy has done this, I

conceive, to a degree which I had previously supposed impossible.

Nothing, I think, in the English language will give us so true an

impression of what is most characteristic of the Spanish drama; perhaps

I ought to say, of what is most characteristic of Spanish poetry

generally."

Another eminent Hispaniologist (Mr. C. F. Bradford, of Boston) has

spoken of the work in similar terms. His labours did not pass without

recognition from the great dramatist's countrymen. He was elected a

member of the Real Academia some years ago, and in 1881 this learned

body presented him with the medal struck in commemoration of Calderon's

bicentenary, "in token of their gratitude and their appreciation of his

translations of the great poet's works."

In 1855, at the request of the Marchioness of Donegal, my father wrote

the ode which was recited at the inauguration of the statue of her son,

the Earl of Belfast. About the same time, his Lectures on Poetry were

delivered at the Catholic University at the desire of Cardinal Newman.

The Lectures on the Poets of Spain, and on the Dramatists of the

Sixteenth Century, were delivered a few years later. In 1862 he

published a curious bibliographical treatise on the "Memoires of the

Marquis de Villars." In 1864 the ill-health of some of his family his

leaving his home near Killiney Hill[6] to reside on the Continent. In

1872, "Shelley's Early Life" was published in London, where he had

settled, attracted by the facilities for research which its great

libraries offered. This biography gives an amusing account of the young

poet's visit to Dublin in 1812, and some new details of his adventures

and writings at this period. My father's admiration for Shelley was of

long standing. At the age of seventeen he wrote some lines to the

poet's memory, which appeared in the "Dublin Satirist" already

mentioned, and an elaborate review of his poetry in an early number of

the Nation. I have before alluded to Shelley's influence in directing

his attention to Calderon. The centenary odes in honour of O'Connell

and Moore were written, in 1875 and 1879, at the request of the

committees which had charge of these celebrations. He returned to

Ireland a few months before his death, which took place at Blackrock,

near Dublin, on April 7th,[7] in the present year. His nature was most

sensitive, but though it was his lot to suffer many sorrows, I never

heard a complaint or and unkind word from his lips.

From what has been said it will be evident that this volume contains

only a part of his poetical works, it having been found impossible to

include the humorous pieces, parodies, and epigrams, without some

acquaintance with which an imperfect idea would be formed of his genius.

The same may be said of his numerous translations from various languages

(exclusive of Calderon's plays). Of those published in 1850, "The

Romance of Maleca," "Saint George's Knight," "The Christmas of the

Foreign Child," and others have been frequently reprinted. He has since

rendered from the Spanish poems by Juan de Pedraza, Antonio de Trueba,

Garcilaso de la Vega, Gongora and "Fernan Caballero," whom he visited

when in Spain shortly before her death, and whose prose story, "The Two

Muleteers," he has also translated. To these must be added, besides

several shorter ballads from Duran's Romancero General, "The Poem of the

Cid," "The Romance of Gayferos," and "The Infanta of France." The last

is a metrical tale of the fourteenth or fifteenth century, presenting

analogies with the "Thousand and One Nights," and probably drawn from an

Oriental source. His translations from the Latin, chiefly of mediaeval

hymns, are also numerous.

In inserting the poem of "Ferdiah" I was influenced by its subject as

well as by the wish of friends. A few extracts appeared in a magazine

several years ago, and it was afterwards completed without any view to

publication. It follows the present Irish text[8] as closely as the

laws of metre will allow. Since these pages were in the printer's hands

Mr. Aubrey de Vere has given to the world his treatment of the same

theme,[9] adorning as usual all that he touches. As he well says: "It

is not in the form of translation that an ancient Irish tale of any

considerable length admits of being rendered in poetry. What is needed

is to select from the original such portions as are at once the most

essential to the story, and the most characteristic, reproducing them in

a condensed form, and taking care that the necessary additions bring out

the idea, and contain nothing that is not in the spirit of the

original." (Preface, p. vii.) The "Tale of Troy Divine" owes its form,

and we may never know how much of its tenderness and grace, to its

Alexandrian editor. However, the present version may, from its very

literalness, have and interest for some readers.

Many of the earlier poems here collected have been admirably rendered

into French by the late M. Ernest de Chatelain.[10] The Moore Centenary

Ode has been translated into Latin by the Rev. M. J. Blacker, M. A.

My thanks are due to the Rev. Matthew Russell, S. J., for his kind

assistance in preparing this book for the press, and to the Publishers

for the accuracy and speed with which it has been produced.

I cannot let pass this opportunity of expressing my gratitude for the

self-sacrificing labours of the committee formed at the suggestion of

Mr. William Lane Joynt, D. L., to honour my father's memory, and for the

generous response his friends have made to their appeal.[11]

JOHN MAC CARTHY

Blackrock, Dublin, August, 1882.

1. "Ballads, Poems, and Lyrics, Original and Translated:" Dublin, 1850.

"The Bell-Founder, and other Poems," "Underglimpses, and other Poems:"

London, 1857. A few pieces which seemed not to be of abiding interest

have been omitted.

2. At 24 Lower Sackville-street. The house, with others adjoining, was

pulled down several years ago. Their site is now occupied by the

Imperial Hotel.

3. The subjective view of nature developed in these Poems has been

censured as remote from human interest. Yet a critic of deep insight,

George Gilfillan, declares his special admiration for "the joyous,

sunny, lark-like carols on May, almost worthy of Shelley, and such

delicate, tender, Moore-like 'trifles' (shall I call them?) as 'All

Fool's Day.' The whole" he adds, "is full of a beautiful poetic spirit,

and rich resources both of fancy and language." I may be permitted to

transcribe here an extract from some unpublished comments by Sir William

Rowan Hamilton on another poem of the same class. His remarks are

interesting in themselves, as coming from one illustrious as a man of

science, and, at the same time, a true poet--a combination which may

hereafter become more frequent, since already in the vast regions of

space and time brought within human ken, imagination strives hard to

keep pace with established fact. In a manuscript volume now in the

Library of Trinity College, Dublin, he writes, under date, May, 1848:--

"The University Magazine for the present month contains a poem which

delights one, entitled 'The Bridal of the Year.' It is signed 'D. F. M.

C.,' as is also a shorter, but almost a sweeter piece immediately

following it, and headed, 'Summer Longings.'"

Sir William goes through the whole poem, copying and criticising every

stanza, and concludes as follows:--

"After a very pretty ninth stanza respecting the 'fairy

phantoms' in the poet's 'glorious visions seen,' which the

author conceives to 'follow the poet's steps beneath the

morning's beam,' he burst into rapture at the approach of the

Bride herself--

"'Bright as are the planets seven--

with her glances

She advances,

For her azure eyes are Heaven!

And her robes are sunbeams woven,

And her beauteous bridesmaids are

Hopes and wishes--

Dreams delicious--

Joys from some serener star,

And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar!'

"Her eyes 'are' heaven, her robes 'are' sunbeams, and with these

physical aspects of the May, how well does the author of this ode (for

such, surely, we may term the poem, so rich in lyrical enthusiasm and

varied melody) conceive the combination as bridesmaids, as companions to

the bride; of those mental feelings, those new buddings of hope in the

heart which the season is fitted to awaken. The azure eyes glitter back

to ours, for the planets shine upon us from the lovely summer night; but

lovelier still are those 'dreams delicious, joys from some serener

star,' which at the same sweet season float down invisibly, and win

their entrance to our souls. The image of a bridal is happily and

naturally kept before us in the remaining stanzas of this poem, which

well deserve to be copied here, in continuation of these notes--the

former for its cheerfulness, the latter for its sweetness. I wish that

I knew the author, or even that I were acquainted with his name.--Since

ascertained to be D. F. MacCarthy."

4. The following are the titles and dates of publication: In 1853,

"The Constant Prince," "The Secret in Words," "The Physician of his own

Honour," "Love after Death," "The Purgatory of St. Patrick," "The Scarf

and the Flower." In 1861, "The Greatest Enchantment," "The Sorceries of

Sin," "Devotion of the Cross." In 1867, "Belshazzar's Feast," "The

Divine Philothea" (with Essays from the German of Lorinser, and the

Spanish of Gonzales Pedroso). In 1870, "Chrysanthus and Daria, the Two

Lovers of Heaven." In 1873, "The Wonder-working Magician," "Life is a

Dream," "The Purgatory of St. Patrick" (a new translation entirely in

the assonant metre). Introductions and notes are added to all these

plays. Another, "Daybreak in Copacabana," was finished a few months

before his death, and has not been published.

5. When the author of "Evangeline" visited Europe for the last time in

1869, they met in Italy. The sonnets at p. 174 [To Henry Wadsworth

Longfellow] refer to this occasion.

6. The "Campo de Estio," described in the lines "Not Known."

7. A fortnight after that of Longfellow. His attached friend and early

associate, Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, perished by assassination at Ottawa on

the same day and month fourteen years ago.

8. Edited by his friend Br. W. K. Sullivan, President of Queen's

College, Cork, who, I may add, has in preparation a paper on the "Voyage

of St. Brendan," and on other ancient Irish accounts of voyages, of

which he finds an explanation in Keltic mythology. The paper will

appear in the Transactions of the American Geographical Society.

9. "The Combat at the Ford" being Fragment III. of his "Legends of

Ireland's Heroic Age." London, 1882.

10. In his "Beautes de la Poesie Anglaise, Rayons et Reflets," &c.

11. The first meeting was held on April 15th, at the Mansion House,

Dublin, under the presidency of the Lord Mayor, the Right Hon. Charles

Dawson, M. P.

CONTENTS.

Preface

BALLADS AND LYRICS.

Waiting for the May [Summer Longings]

Devotion

The Seasons of the Heart

Kate of Kenmare

A Lament

The Bridal of the Year

The Vale of Shanganah

The Pillar Towers of Ireland

Over the Sea

Oh! had I the Wings of a Bird [Home Preference]

Love's Language

The Fireside

The Banished Spirit's Song

Remembrance

The Clan of MacCaura

The Window

Autumn Fears

Fatal Gifts

Sweet May

FERDIAH: an Episode from the Tain Bo Cuailgne

THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN

THE FORAY OF CON O'DONNELL

THE BELL-FOUNDER

ALICE AND UNA

NATIONAL POEMS AND SONGS.

Advance!

Remonstrance

Ireland's Vow

A Dream

The Price of Freedom

The Voice and Pen

"Cease to do Evil--Learn to do Well"

The Living Land

The Dead Tribune

A Mystery

SONNETS.

"The History of Dublin"

To Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

To Kenelm Henry Digby

To Ethna [Dedicatory Sonnet]

UNDERGLIMPSES.

The Arraying

The Search

The Tidings

Welcome, May

The Meeting of the Flowers

The Progress of the Rose

The Bath of the Streams

The Flowers of the Tropics

The Year-King

The Awaking

The Resurrection

The First of the Angels

Spirit Voices

CENTENARY ODES.

O'Connell (August 6th, 1875)

Moore (May 28th, 1879)

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

The Spirit of the Snow

To the Bay of Dublin

To Ethna

"Not Known"

The Lay Missioner

The Spirit of the Ideal

Recollections

Dolores

Lost and Found

Spring Flowers from Ireland

To the Memory of Father Prout

Those Shandon Bells

Youth and Age

To June

Sunny Days in Winter

The Birth of the Spring

All Fool's Day

Darrynane

A Shamrock from the Irish Shore

Italian Myrtles

The Irish Emigrant's Mother [The Emigrants]

The Rain: a Song of Peace

Poems.

BALLADS AND LYRICS.

WAITING FOR THE MAY.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting,

Waiting for the May--

Waiting for the pleasant rambles,

Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles,

With the woodbine alternating,

Scent the dewy way.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting,

Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,

Longing for the May--

Longing to escape from study,

To the young face fair and ruddy,

And the thousand charms belonging

To the summer's day.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,

Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,

Sighing for the May--

Sighing for their sure returning,

When the summer beams are burning,

Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,

All the winter lay.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,

Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing,

Throbbing for the May--

Throbbing for the sea-side billows,

Or the water-wooing willows,

Where in laughing and in sobbing

Glide the streams away.

Ah! my heart is pained and throbbing,

Throbbing for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary,

Waiting for the May.

Spring goes by with wasted warnings,

Moon-lit evenings, sun-bright mornings;

Summer comes, yet dark and dreary

Life still ebbs away:

Man is ever weary, weary,

Waiting for the May!

DEVOTION.

When I wander by the ocean,

When I view its wild commotion,

Then the spirit of devotion

Cometh near;

And it fills my brain and bosom,

Like a fear!

I fear its booming thunder,

Its terror and its wonder,

Its icy waves, that sunder

Heart from heart;

And the white host that lies under

Makes me start.

Its clashing and its clangour

Proclaim the Godhead's anger--

I shudder, and with langour

Turn away;

No joyance fills my bosom

For that day.

When I wander through the valleys,

When the evening zephyr dallies,

And the light expiring rallies

In the stream,

That spirit comes and glads me,

Like a dream.

The blue smoke upward curling,

The silver streamlet purling,

The meadow wildflowers furling

Their leaflets to repose:

All woo me from the world

And its woes.

The evening bell that bringeth

A truce to toil outringeth,

No sweetest bird that singeth

Half so sweet,

Not even the lark that springeth

From my feet.

Then see I God beside me,

The sheltering trees that hide me,

The mountains that divide me

From the sea:

All prove how kind a Father

He can be.

Beneath the sweet moon shining

The cattle are reclining,

No murmur of repining

Soundeth sad:

All feel the present Godhead,

And are glad.

With mute, unvoiced confessings,

To the Giver of all blessings

I kneel, and with caressings

Press the sod,

And thank my Lord and Father,

And my God.

THE SEASONS OF THE HEART.

The different hues that deck the earth

All in our bosoms have their birth;

'Tis not in the blue or sunny skies,

'Tis in the heart the summer lies!

The earth is bright if that be glad,

Dark is the earth if that be sad:

And thus I feel each weary day--

'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

In vain, upon her emerald car,

Comes Spring, "the maiden from afar,"

And scatters o'er the woods and fields

The liberal gifts that nature yields;

In vain the buds begin to grow,

In vain the crocus gilds the snow;

I feel no joy though earth be gay--

'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

And when the Autumn crowns the year,

And ripened hangs the golden ear,

And luscious fruits of ruddy hue

The bending boughs are glancing through,

When yellow leaves from sheltered nooks

Come forth and try the mountain brooks,

Even then I feel, as there I stray--

'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

And when the winter comes at length,

With swaggering gait and giant strength,

And with his strong arms in a trice

Binds up the streams in chains of ice,

What need I sigh for pleasures gone,

The twilight eve, the rosy dawn?

My heart is changed as much as they--

'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

Even now, when Summer lends the scene

Its brightest gold, its purest green,

Whene'er I climb the mountain's breast,

With softest moss and heath-flowers dress'd,

When now I hear the breeze that stirs

The golden bells that deck the furze,

Alas! unprized they pass away--

'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

But when thou comest back once more,

Though dark clouds hang and loud winds roar,

And mists obscure the nearest hills,

And dark and turbid roll the rills,

Such pleasures then my breast shall know,

That summer's sun shall round me glow;

Then through the gloom shall gleam the May--

'Tis winter all when thou'rt away!

KATE OF KENMARE.

Oh! many bright eyes full of goodness and gladness,

Where the pure soul looks out, and the heart loves to shine,

And many cheeks pale with the soft hue of sadness,

Have I worshipped in silence and felt them divine!

But Hope in its gleamings, or Love in its dreamings,

Ne'er fashioned a being so faultless and fair

As the lily-cheeked beauty, the rose of the Roughty,[12]

The fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!

It was all but a moment, her radiant existence,

Her presence, her absence, all crowded on me;

But time has not ages and earth has not distance

To sever, sweet vision, my spirit from thee!

Again am I straying where children are playing,

Bright is the sunshine and balmy the air,

Mountains are heathy, and there do I see thee,

Sweet fawn of the valley, young Kate of Kenmare!

Thine arbutus beareth full many a cluster

Of white waxen blossoms like lilies in air;

But, oh! thy pale cheek hath a delicate lustre

No blossoms can rival, no lily doth wear;

To that cheek softly flushing, thy lip brightly blushing,

Oh! what are the berries that bright tree doth bear?

Peerless in beauty, that rose of the Roughty,

That fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!

O Beauty! some spell from kind Nature thou bearest,

Some magic of tone or enchantment of eye,

That hearts that are hardest, from forms that are fairest,

Receive such impressions as never can die!

The foot of the fairy, though lightsome and airy,[13]

Can stamp on the hard rock the shapes it doth wear;

Art cannot trace it, nor ages efface it:

And such are thy glances, sweet Kate of Kenmare!

To him who far travels how sad is the feeling,

How the light of his mind is o'ershadowed and dim,

When the scenes he most loves, like a river's soft stealing,

All fade as a vision and vanish from him!

Yet he bears from each far land a flower for that garland

That memory weaves of the bright and the fair;

While this sigh I am breathing my garland is wreathing,

And the rose of that garland is Kate of Kenmare!

In lonely Lough Quinlan in summer's soft hours,

Fair islands are floating that move with the tide,

Which, sterile at first, are soon covered with flowers,

And thus o'er the bright waters fairy-like glide.

Thus the mind the most vacant is quickly awakened,

And the heart bears a harvest that late was so bare,

Of him who in roving finds objects of loving,

Like the fawn of the valley, sweet Kate of Kenmare!

Sweet Kate of Kenmare! though I ne'er may behold thee,

Though the pride and the joy of another thou be,

Though strange lips may praise thee, and strange arms enfold thee,

A blessing, dear Kate, be on them and on thee!

One feeling I cherish that never can perish--

One talisman proof to the dark wizard care--

The fervent and dutiful love of the Beautiful,

Of which thou art a type, gentle Kate of Kenmare!

12. The river of Kenmare.

13. Near the town is the "Fairy Rock," on which the marks of several

feet are deeply impressed. It derives its name from the popular belief

that these are the work of fairies.

A LAMENT.

The dream is over,

The vision has flown;

Dead leaves are lying

Where roses have blown;

Wither'd and strown

Are the hopes I cherished,--

All hath perished

But grief alone.

My heart was a garden

Where fresh leaves grew

Flowers there were many,

And weeds a few;

Cold winds blew,

And the frosts came thither,

For flowers will wither,

And weeds renew!

Youth's bright palace

Is overthrown,

With its diamond sceptre

And golden throne;

As a time-worn stone

Its turrets are humbled,--

All hath crumbled

But grief alone!

Wither, oh, whither,

Have fled away

The dreams and hopes

Of my early day?

Ruined and gray

Are the towers I builded;

And the beams that gilded--

Ah! where are they?

Once this world

Was fresh and bright,

With its golden noon

And its starry night;

Glad and light,

By mountain and river,

Have I bless'd the Giver

With hushed delight.

These were the days

Of story and song,

When Hope had a meaning

And Faith was strong.

"Life will be long,

And lit with Love's gleamings;"

Such were my dreamings,

But, ah, how wrong!

Youth's illusions,

One by one,

Have passed like clouds

That the sun looked on.

While morning shone,

How purple their fringes!

How ashy their tinges

When that was gone!

Darkness that cometh

Ere morn has fled--

Boughs that wither

Ere fruits are shed--

Death bells instead

Of a bridal's pealings--

Such are my feelings,

Since Hope is dead!

Sad is the knowledge

That cometh with years--

Bitter the tree

That is watered with tears;

Truth appears,

With his wise predictions,

Then vanish the fictions

Of boyhood's years.

As fire-flies fade

When the nights are damp--

As meteors are quenched

In a stagnant swamp--

Thus Charlemagne's camp,

Where the Paladins rally,

And the Diamond Valley,

And Wonderful Lamp,

And all the wonders

Of Ganges and Nile,

And Haroun's rambles,

And Crusoe's isle,

And Princes who smile

On the Genii's daughters

'Neath the Orient waters

Full many a mile,

And all that the pen

Of Fancy can write

Must vanish

In manhood's misty light--

Squire and knight,

And damosels' glances,

Sunny romances

So pure and bright!

These have vanished,

And what remains?--

Life's budding garlands

Have turned to chains;

Its beams and rains

Feed but docks and thistles,

And sorrow whistles

O'er desert plains!

The dove will fly

From a ruined nest,

Love will not dwell

In a troubled breast;

The heart has no zest

To sweeten life's dolour--

If Love, the Consoler,

Be not its guest!

The dream is over,

The vision has flown;

Dead leaves are lying

Where roses have blown;

Wither'd and strown

Are the hopes I cherished,--

All hath perished

But grief alone!

THE BRIDAL OF THE YEAR.

Yes! the Summer is returning,

Warmer, brighter beams are burning

Golden mornings, purple evenings,

Come to glad the world once more.

Nature from her long sojourning

In the Winter-House of Mourning,

With the light of hope outpeeping,

From those eyes that late were weeping,

Cometh dancing o'er the waters

To our distant shore.

On the boughs the birds are singing,

Never idle,

For the bridal

Goes the frolic breeze a-ringing

All the green bells on the branches,

Which the soul of man doth hear;

Music-shaken,

It doth waken,

Half in hope, and half in fear,

And dons its festal garments for the Bridal of the Year!

For the Year is sempiternal,

Never wintry, never vernal,

Still the same through all the changes

That our wondering eyes behold.

Spring is but his time of wooing--

Summer but the sweet renewing

Of the vows he utters yearly,

Ever fondly and sincerely,

To the young bride that he weddeth,

When to heaven departs the old,

For it is her fate to perish,

Having brought him,

In the Autumn,

Children for his heart to cherish.

Summer, like a human mother,

Dies in bringing forth her young;

Sorrow blinds him,

Winter finds him

Childless, too, their graves among,

Till May returns once more, and the bridal hymns are sung.

Thrice the great Betroth'ed naming,

Thrice the mystic banns proclaiming,

February, March, and April,

Spread the tidings far and wide;

Thrice they questioned each new-comer,

"Know ye, why the sweet-faced Summer,

With her rich imperial dower,

Golden fruit and diamond flower,

And her pearly raindrop trinkets,

Should not be the green Earth's Bride?"

All things vocal spoke elated

(Nor the voiceless

Did rejoice less)--

"Be the heavenly lovers mated!"

All the many murmuring voices

Of the music-breathing Spring,

Young birds twittering,

Streamlets glittering,

Insects on transparent wing--

All hailed the Summer nuptials of their King!

Now the rosy East gives warning,

'Tis the wished-for nuptial morning.

Sweetest truant from Elysium,

Golden morning of the May!

All the guests are in their places--

Lilies with pale, high-bred faces--

Hawthorns in white wedding favours,

Scented with celestial savours--

Daisies, like sweet country maidens,

Wear white scolloped frills to-day;

'Neath her hat of straw the Peasant

Primrose sitteth,

Nor permitteth

Any of her kindred present,

Specially the milk-sweet cowslip,

E'er to leave the tranquil shade;

By the hedges,

Or the edges

Of some stream or grassy glade,

They look upon the scene half wistful, half afraid.

Other guests, too, are invited,

From the alleys dimly lighted,

From the pestilential vapours

Of the over-peopled town--

From the fever and the panic,

Comes the hard-worked, swarth mechanic--

Comes the young wife pallor-stricken

At the cares that round her thicken--

Comes the boy whose brow is wrinkled,

Ere his chin is clothed in down--

And the foolish pleasure-seekers,

Nightly thinking

They are drinking

Life and joy from poisoned beakers,

Shudder at their midnight madness,

And the raving revel scorn:

All are treading

To the wedding

In the freshness of the morn,

And feel, perchance too late, the bliss of being born.

And the Student leaves his poring,

And his venturous exploring

In the gold and gem-enfolding

Waters of the ancient lore--

Seeking in its buried treasures,

Means for life's most common pleasures;

Neither vicious nor ambitious--

Simple wants and simple wishes.

Ah! he finds the ancient learning

But the Spartan's iron ore;

Without value in an era

Far more golden

Than the olden--

When the beautiful chimera,

Love, hath almost wholly faded

Even from the dreams of men.

From his prison

Newly risen--

From his book-enchanted den--

The stronger magic of the morning drives him forth again.

And the Artist, too--the Gifted--

He whose soul is heaven-ward lifted.

Till it drinketh inspiration

At the fountain of the skies;

He, within whose fond embraces

Start to life the marble graces;

Or, with God-like power presiding,

With the potent pencil gliding,

O'er the void chaotic canvas

Bids the fair creations rise!

And the quickened mass obeying

Heaves its mountains;

From its fountains

Sends the gentle streams a-straying

Through the vales, like Love's first feelings

Stealing o'er a maiden's heart;

The Creator--

Imitator--

From his easel forth doth start,

And from God's glorious Nature learns anew his Art!

But who is this with tresses flowing,

Flashing eyes and forehead glowing,

From whose lips the thunder-music

Pealeth o'er the listening lands?

'Tis the first and last of preachers--

First and last of priestly teachers;

First and last of those appointed

In the ranks of the anointed;

With their songs like swords to sever

Tyranny and Falsehood's bands!

'Tis the Poet--sum and total

Of the others,

With his brothers,

In his rich robes sacerdotal,

Singing with his golden psalter.

Comes he now to wed the twain--

Truth and Beauty--

Rest and Duty--

Hope, and Fear, and Joy, and Pain,

Unite for weal or woe beneath the Poet's chain!

And the shapes that follow after,

Some in tears and some in laughter,

Are they not the fairy phantoms

In his glorious vision seen?

Nymphs from shady forests wending,

Goddesses from heaven descending;

Three of Jove's divinest daughters,

Nine from Aganippe's waters;

And the passion-immolated,

Too fond-hearted Tyrian Queen,

Various shapes of one idea,

Memory-haunting,

Heart-enchanting,

Cythna, Genevieve, and Nea,[14]

Rosalind and all her sisters,

Born by Avon's sacred stream,

All the blooming

Shapes, illuming

The Eternal Pilgrim's dream,[15]

Follow the Poet's steps beneath the morning's beam.

But the Bride--the Bride is coming!

Birds are singing, bees are humming;

Silent lakes amid the mountains

Look but cannot speak their mirth;

Streams go bounding in their gladness,

With a bacchanalian madness;

Trees bow down their heads in wonder,

Clouds of purple part asunder,

As the Maiden of the Morning

Leads the blushing Bride to Earth!

Bright as are the planets seven--

With her glances

She advances,

For her azure eyes are Heaven!

And her robes are sunbeams woven,

And her beauteous bridesmaids are

Hopes and wishes--

Dreams delicious--

Joys from some serener star,

And Heavenly-hued Illusions gleaming from afar.

Now the mystic right is over--

Blessings on the loved and lover!

Strike the tabours, clash the cymbals,

Let the notes of joy resound!

With the rosy apple-blossom,

Blushing like a maiden's bosom;

With all treasures from the meadows

Strew the consecrated ground;

Let the guests with vows fraternal

Pledge each other,

Sister, brother,

With the wine of Hope--the vernal

Vine-juice of Man's trustful heart:

Perseverance

And Forbearance,

Love and Labour, Song and Art,

Be this the cheerful creed wherewith the world may start.

But whither the twain departed?

The United--the One-hearted--

Whither from the bridal banquet

Have the Bride and Bridegroom flown?

Ah! their steps have led them quickly

Where the young leaves cluster thickly;

Blossomed boughs rain fragrance o'er them,

Greener grows the grass before them,

As they wander through the island,

Fond, delighted, and alone!

At their coming streams grow brighter,

Skies grow clearer,

Mountains nearer,

And the blue waves dancing lighter

From the far-off mighty ocean

Frolic on the glistening sand;

Jubilations,

Gratulations,

Breathe around, as hand-in-hand

They roam the Sutton's sea-washed shore, or soft Shanganah's strand.

14. Characters in Shelley, Coleridge, and Moore.

15. "The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame

Over his living head, like Heaven, is bent,

An early but enduring monument."

Byron. (Shelley's "Adonais.")

THE VALE OF SHANGANAH.[16]

When I have knelt in the temple of Duty,

Worshipping honour and valour and beauty--

When, like a brave man, in fearless resistance,

I have fought the good fight on the field of existence;

When a home I have won in the conflict of labour,

With truth for my armour and thought for my sabre,

Be that home a calm home where my old age may rally,

A home full of peace in this sweet pleasant valley!

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna,

Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah!

Fair is this isle--this dear child of the ocean--

Nurtured with more than a mother's devotion;

For see! in what rich robes has nature arrayed her,

From the waves of the west to the cliffs of Ben Hader,[17]

By Glengariff's lone islets--Lough Lene's fairy water,[18]

So lovely was each, that then matchless I thought her;

But I feel, as I stray through each sweet-scented alley,

Less wild but more fair is this soft verdant valley!

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

No wide-spreading prairie, no Indian savannah,

So dear to the eye as the Vale of Shanganah!

How pleased, how delighted, the rapt eye reposes

On the picture of beauty this valley discloses,

From the margin of silver, whereon the blue water

Doth glance like the eyes of the ocean foam's daughter!

To where, with the red clouds of morning combining,

The tall "Golden Spears"[19] o'er the mountains are shining,

With the hue of their heather, as sunlight advances,

Like purple flags furled round the staffs of the lances!

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

No lands far away by the swift Susquehannah,

So tranquil and fair as the Vale of Shanganah!

But here, even here, the lone heart were benighted,

No beauty could reach it, if love did not light it;

'Tis this makes the earth, oh! what mortal could doubt it?

A garden with it, but a desert without it!

With the lov'd one, whose feelings instinctively teach her

That goodness of heart makes the beauty of feature.

How glad, through this vale, would I float down life's river,

Enjoying God's bounty, and blessing the Giver!

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!

May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna,

Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah!

16. Lying to the south of Killiney-hill, near Dublin.

17. Hill of Howth.

18. Killarney.

19. The Sugarloaf Mountains, county Wicklow, were called in Irish, "The

Spears of Gold."

THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND.

The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they stand

By the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land;

In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime,

These gray old pillar temples, these conquerors of time!

Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing and weak

The Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of the Greek,

And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires,

All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires!

The column, with its capital, is level with the dust,

And the proud halls of the mighty and the calm homes of the just;

For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower,

Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower!

But the grass grows again when in majesty and mirth,

On the wing of the spring, comes the Goddess of the Earth;

But for man in this world no springtide e'er returns

To the labours of his hands or the ashes of his urns!

Two favourites hath Time--the pyramids of Nile,

And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle;

As the breeze o'er the seas, where the halcyon has its nest,

Thus Time o'er Egypt's tombs and the temples of the West!

The names of their founders have vanished in the gloom,

Like the dry branch in the fire or the body in the tomb;

But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they cast--

These temples of forgotten gods--these relics of the past!

Around these walls have wandered the Briton and the Dane--

The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of Spain--

Phoenician and Milesian, and the plundering Norman Peers--

And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of later years!

How many different rites have these gray old temples known!

To the mind what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone!

What terror and what error, what gleams of love and truth,

Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth?

Here blazed the sacred fire, and, when the sun was gone,

As a star from afar to the traveller it shone;

And the warm blood of the victim have these gray old temples drunk,

And the death-song of the druid and the matin of the monk.

Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine,

And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine,

And the mitre shining brighter with its diamonds than the East,

And the crosier of the pontiff and the vestments of the priest.

Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper bell,

Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's cell;

And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and good,

For the cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit stood.

There may it stand for ever, while that symbol doth impart

To the mind one glorious vision, or one proud throb to the heart;

While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples last,

Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past!

OVER THE SEA.

Sad eyes! why are ye steadfastly gazing

Over the sea?

Is it the flock of the ocean-shepherd grazing

Like lambs on the lea?--

Is it the dawn on the orient billows blazing

Allureth ye?

Sad heart! why art thou tremblingly beating--

What troubleth thee?

There where the waves from the fathomless water come greeting,

Wild with their glee!

Or rush from the rocks, like a routed battalion retreating,

Over the sea!

Sad feet! why are ye constantly straying

Down by the sea?

There, where the winds in the sandy harbour are playing

Child-like and free,

What is the charm, whose potent enchantment obeying,

There chaineth ye?

O! sweet is the dawn, and bright are the colours it glows in,

Yet not to me!

To the beauty of God's bright creation my bosom is frozen!

Nought can I see,

Since she has departed--the dear one, the loved one, the chosen,

Over the sea!

Pleasant it was when the billows did struggle and wrestle,

Pleasant to see!

Pleasant to climb the tall cliffs where the sea birds nestle,

When near to thee!

Nought can I now behold but the track of thy vessel

Over the sea!

Long as a Lapland winter, which no pleasant sunlight cheereth,

The summer shall be

Vainly shall autumn be gay, in the rich robes it weareth,

Vainly for me!

No joy can I feel till the prow of thy vessel appeareth

Over the sea!

Sweeter than summer, which tenderly, motherly bringeth

Flowers to the bee;

Sweeter than autumn, which bounteously, lovingly flingeth

Fruits on the tree,

Shall be winter, when homeward returning, thy swift vessel wingeth

Over the sea!

OH! HAD I THE WINGS OF A BIRD.

Oh! had I the wings of a bird,

To soar through the blue, sunny sky,

By what breeze would my pinions be stirred?

To what beautiful land should I fly?

Would the gorgeous East allure,

With the light of its golden eyes,

Where the tall green palm, over isles of balm,

Waves with its feathery leaves?

Ah! no! no! no!

I heed not its tempting glare;

In vain should I roam from my island home,

For skies more fair!

Should I seek a southern sea,

Italia's shore beside,

Where the clustering grape from tree to tree

Hangs in its rosy pride?

My truant heart, be still,

For I long have sighed to stray

Through the myrtle flowers of fair Italy's bowers.

By the shores of its southern bay.

But no! no! no!

Though bright be its sparkling seas,

I never would roam from my island home,

For charms like these!

Should I seek that land so bright,

Where the Spanish maiden roves,

With a heart of love and an eye of light,

Through her native citron groves?

Oh! sweet would it be to rest

In the midst of the olive vales,

Where the orange blooms and the rose perfumes

The breath of the balmy gales!

But no! no! no!--

Though sweet be its wooing air,

I never would roam from my island home,

To scenes though fair!

Should I pass from pole to pole?

Should I seek the western skies,

Where the giant rivers roll,

And the mighty mountains rise?

Or those treacherous isles that lie

In the midst of the sunny deeps,

Where the cocoa stands on the glistening sands,

And the dread tornado sweeps!

Ah! no! no! no!

They have no charms for me;

I never would roam from my island home,

Though poor it be!

Poor!--oh! 'tis rich in all

That flows from Nature's hand;

Rich in the emerald wall

That guards its emerald land!

Are Italy's fields more green?

Do they teem with a richer store

Than the bright green breast of the Isle of the West,

And its wild, luxuriant shore?

Ah! no! no! no!

Upon it heaven doth smile;

Oh, I never would roam from my native home,

My own dear isle!

LOVE'S LANGUAGE.

Need I say how much I love thee?--

Need my weak words tell,

That I prize but heaven above thee,

Earth not half so well?

If this truth has failed to move thee,

Hope away must flee;

If thou dost not feel I love thee,

Vain my words would be!

Need I say how long I've sought thee--

Need my words declare,

Dearest, that I long have thought thee

Good and wise and fair?

If no sigh this truth has brought thee,

Woe, alas! to me;

Where thy own heart has not taught thee,

Vain my words would be!

Need I say when others wooed thee,

How my breast did pine,

Lest some fond heart that pursued thee

Dearer were than mine?

If no pity then came to thee,

Mixed with love for me,

Vainly would my words imbue thee,

Vain my words would be!

Love's best language is unspoken,

Yet how simply known;

Eloquent is every token,

Look, and touch, and tone.

If thy heart hath not awoken,

If not yet on thee

Love's sweet silent light hath broken,

Vain my words would be!

Yet, in words of truest meaning,

Simple, fond, and few;

By the wild waves intervening,

Dearest, I love you!

Vain the hopes my heart is gleaning,

If, long since to thee,

My fond heart required unscreening,

Vain my words will be!

THE FIRESIDE.

I have tasted all life's pleasures, I have snatched at all its joys,

The dance's merry measures and the revel's festive noise;

Though wit flashed bright the live-long night, and flowed the ruby tide,

I sighed for thee, I sighed for thee, my own fireside!

In boyhood's dreams I wandered far across the ocean's breast,

In search of some bright earthly star, some happy isle of rest;

I little thought the bliss I sought in roaming far and wide

Was sweetly centred all in thee, my own fireside!

How sweet to turn at evening's close from all our cares away,

And end in calm, serene repose, the swiftly passing day!

The pleasant books, the smiling looks of sister or of bride,

All fairy ground doth make around one's own fireside!

"My Lord" would never condescend to honour my poor hearth;

"His Grace" would scorn a host or friend of mere plebeian birth;

And yet the lords of human kind, whom man has deified,

For ever meet in converse sweet around my fireside!

The poet sings his deathless songs, the sage his lore repeats,

The patriot tells his country's wrongs, the chief his warlike feats;

Though far away may be their clay, and gone their earthly pride,

Each god-like mind in books enshrined still haunts my fireside!

Oh, let me glance a moment through the coming crowd of years,

Their triumphs or their failures, their sunshine or their tears;

How poor or great may be my fate, I care not what betide,

So peace and love but hallow thee, my own fireside!

Still let me hold the vision close, and closer to my sight;

Still, still, in hopes elysian, let my spirit wing its flight;

Still let me dream, life's shadowy stream may yield from out its tide,

A mind at rest, a tranquil breast, a quiet fireside!

THE BANISHED SPIRIT'S SONG.[20]

Beautiful clime, where I've dwelt so long,

In mirth and music, in gladness and song!

Fairer than aught upon earth art thou--

Beautiful clime, must I leave thee now?

No more shall I join the circle bright

Of my sister nymphs, when they dance at night

In their grottos cool and their pearly halls,

When the glowworm hangs on the ivy walls!

No more shall I glide o'er the waters blue,

With a crimson shell for my light canoe,

Or a rose-leaf plucked from the neighbouring trees,

Piloted o'er by the flower-fed breeze!

Oh! must I leave those spicy gales,

Those purple hills and those flowery vales?

Where the earth is strewed with pansy and rose,

And the golden fruit of the orange grows!

Oh! must I leave this region fair,

For a world of toil and a life of care?

In its dreary paths how long must I roam,

Far away from my fairy home?

The song of birds and the hum of bees,

And the breath of flowers, are on the breeze;

The purple plum and the cone-like pear,

Drooping, hang in the rosy air!

The fountains scatter their pearly rain

On the thirsty flowers and the ripening grain;

The insects sport in the sunny beam,

And the golden fish in the laughing stream.

The Naiads dance by the river's edge,

On the low, soft moss and the bending sedge;

Wood-nymphs and satyrs and graceful fawns

Sport in the woods, on the grassy lawns!

The slanting sunbeams tip with gold

The emerald leaves in the forests old--

But I must away from this fairy scene,

Those leafy woods and those valleys green!

20. Written in early youth.

REMEMBRANCE.

With that pleasant smile thou wearest,

Thou art gazing on the fairest

Wonders of the earth and sea:

Do thou not, in all thy seeing,

Lose the mem'ry of one being

Who at home doth think of thee.

In the capital of nations,

Sun of all earth's constellations,

Thou art roaming glad and free:

Do thou not, in all thy roving,

Lose the mem'ry of one loving

Heart at home that beats for thee.

Strange eyes around thee glisten,

To a strange tongue thou dost listen,

Strangers bend the suppliant knee:

Do thou not, for all their seeming

Truth, forget the constant beaming

Eyes at home that watch for thee.

Stately palaces surround thee,

Royal parks and gardens bound thee--

Gardens of the 'Fleur de Lis':

Do thou not, for all their splendour,

Quite forget the humble, tender

Thoughts at home, that turn to thee.

When, at length of absence weary,

When the year grows sad and dreary,

And an east wind sweeps the sea;

Ere the days of dark November,

Homeward turn, and then remember

Hearts at home that pine for thee!

THE CLAN OF MAC CAURA.[21]

Oh! bright are the names of the chieftains and sages,

That shine like the stars through the darkness of ages,

Whose deeds are inscribed on the pages of story,

There for ever to live in the sunshine of glory,

Heroes of history, phantoms of fable,

Charlemagne's champions, and Arthur's Round Table;

Oh! but they all a new lustre could borrow

From the glory that hangs round the name of MacCaura!

Thy waves, Manzanares, wash many a shrine,

And proud are the castles that frown o'er the Rhine,

And stately the mansions whose pinnacles glance

Through the elms of Old England and vineyards of France;

Many have fallen, and many will fall,

Good men and brave men have dwelt in them all,

But as good and as brave men, in gladness and sorrow,

Have dwelt in the halls of the princely MacCaura!

Montmorency, Medina, unheard was thy rank

By the dark-eyed Iberian and light-hearted Frank,

And your ancestors wandered, obscure and unknown,

By the smooth Guadalquiver and sunny Garonne.

Ere Venice had wedded the sea, or enrolled

The name of a Doge in her proud "Book of Gold;"

When her glory was all to come on like the morrow,

There were the chieftains and kings of the clan of MacCaura!

Proud should thy heart beat, descendant of Heber,[22]

Lofty thy head as the shrines of the Guebre,[23]

Like them are the halls of thy forefathers shattered,

Like theirs is the wealth of thy palaces scattered.

Their fire is extinguished--thy banner long furled--

But how proud were ye both in the dawn of the world!

And should both fade away, oh! what heart would not sorrow

O'er the towers of the Guebre--the name of MacCaura!

What a moment of glory to cherish and dream on,

When far o'er the sea came the ships of Heremon,

With Heber, and Ir, and the Spanish patricians,

To free Inisfail from the spells of magicians.[24]

Oh! reason had these for their quaking and pallor,

For what magic can equal the strong sword of valour?

Better than spells are the axe and the arrow,

When wielded or flung by the hand of MacCaura!

From that hour a MacCaura had reigned in his pride

O'er Desmond's green valleys and rivers so wide,

From thy waters, Lismore, to the torrents and rills

That are leaping for ever down Brandon's brown hills;

The billows of Bantry, the meadows of Bear,

The wilds of Evaugh, and the groves of Glancare,

From the Shannon's soft shores to the banks of the Barrow,

All owned the proud sway of the princely MacCaura!

In the house of Miodchuart,[25] by princes surrounded,

How noble his step when the trumpet was sounded,

And his clansmen bore proudly his broad shield before him,

And hung it on high in that bright palace o'er him;

On the left of the monarch the chieftain was seated,

And happy was he whom his proud glances greeted:

'Mid monarchs and chiefs at the great Fes of Tara,

Oh! none was to rival the princely MacCaura!

To the halls of the Red Branch,[26] when the conquest was o'er,

The champions their rich spoils of victory bore,

And the sword of the Briton, the shield of the Dane,

Flashed bright as the sun on the walls of Eamhain;

There Dathy and Niall bore trophies of war,

From the peaks of the Alps and the waves of Loire;

But no knight ever bore from the hills of Ivaragh

The breast-plate or axe of a conquered MacCaura!

In chasing the red deer what step was the fleetest?--

In singing the love song what voice was the sweetest?--

What breast was the foremost in courting the danger?--

What door was the widest to shelter the stranger?--

In friendship the truest, in battle the bravest,

In revel the gayest, in council the gravest?--

A hunter to-day and a victor to-morrow?--

Oh! who but a chief of the princely MacCaura!

But, oh! proud MacCaura, what anguish to touch on

The fatal stain of thy princely escutcheon;

In thy story's bright garden the one spot of bleakness,

Through ages of valour the one hour of weakness!

Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred and royal--

Thou to kneel to the Norman and swear to be loyal!

Oh! a long night of horror, and outrage, and sorrow,

Have we wept for thy treason, base Diarmid MacCaura![27]

Oh! why ere you thus to the foreigner pandered,

Did you not bravely call round your emerald standard,

The chiefs of your house of Lough Lene and Clan Awley

O'Donogh, MacPatrick, O'Driscoll, MacAwley,

O'Sullivan More, from the towers of Dunkerron,

And O'Mahon, the chieftain of green Ardinterran?

As the sling sends the stone or the bent bow the arrow,

Every chief would have come at the call of MacCaura.

Soon, soon didst thou pay for that error in woe,

Thy life to the Butler, thy crown to the foe,

Thy castles dismantled, and strewn on the sod,

And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys of God!

No more in thy halls is the wayfarer fed,

Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft heather spread,

Nor the "clairsech's" sweet notes, now in mirth, now in sorrow,

All, all have gone by, but the name of MacCaura!

MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by,

But its name cannot fade, and its fame cannot die,

Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves, shine

Around no green forests or castles of thine--

Though the shrines that you founded no incense doth hallow,

Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Allo,

One treasure thou keepest, one hope for the morrow--

True hearts yet beat of the clan of MacCaura!

21. MacCarthaig, or MacCarthy.

22. The eldest son of Milesius, King of Spain, in the legendary history

of Ireland.

23. The Round Towers.

24. The Tuatha Dedannans, so called, says Keating, from their skill in

necromancy, for which some were so famous as to be called gods.

25. See Keating's "History of Ireland" and Petrie's "Tara."

26. In the palace of Emania, in Ulster.

27. Diarmid MacCaura, King of Desmond, and Daniel O'Brien, King of

Thomond, were the first of the Irish princes to swear fealty to Henry

II.

THE WINDOW.

At my window, late and early,

In the sunshine and the rain,

When the jocund beams of morning

Come to wake me from my napping,

With their golden fingers tapping

At my window pane:

From my troubled slumbers flitting,

From the dreamings fond and vain,

From the fever intermitting,

Up I start, and take my sitting

At my window pane:--

Through the morning, through the noontide,

Fettered by a diamond chain,

Through the early hours of evening,

When the stars begin to tremble,

As their shining ranks assemble

O'er the azure plain:

When the thousand lamps are blazing

Through the street and lane--

Mimic stars of man's upraising--

Still I linger, fondly gazing

From my window pane!

For, amid the crowds slow passing,

Surging like the main,

Like a sunbeam among shadows,

Through the storm-swept cloudy masses,

Sometimes one bright being passes

'Neath my window pane:

Thus a moment's joy I borrow

From a day of pain.

See, she comes! but--bitter sorrow!

Not until the slow to-morrow,

Will she come again.

AUTUMN FEARS.

The weary, dreary, dripping rain,

From morn till night, from night till morn,

Along the hills and o'er the plain,

Strikes down the green and yellow corn;

The flood lies deep upon the ground,

No ripening heat the cold sun yields,

And rank and rotting lies around

The glory of the summer fields!

How full of fears, how racked with pain,

How torn with care the heart must be,

Of him who sees his golden grain

Laid prostrate thus o'er lawn and lea;

For all that nature doth desire,

All that the shivering mortal shields,

The Christmas fare, the winter's fire,

All comes from out the summer fields.

I too have strayed in pleasing toil

Along youth's and fertile meads;

I too within Hope's genial soil

Have, trusting, placed Love's golden seeds;

I too have feared the chilling dew,

The heavy rain when thunder pealed,

Lest Fate might blight the flower that grew

For me in Hope's green summer field.

Ah! who can paint that beauteous flower,

Thus nourished by celestial dew,

Thus growing fairer, hour by hour,

Delighting more, the more it grew;

Bright'ning, not burdening the ground,

Nor proud with inward worth concealed,

But scattering all its fragrance round

Its own sweet sphere, its summer field!

At morn the gentle flower awoke,

And raised its happy face to God;

At evening, when the starlight broke,

It bending sought the dewy sod;

And thus at morn, and thus at even,

In fragrant sighs its heart revealed,

Thus seeking heaven, and making heaven

Within its own sweet summer field!

Oh! joy beyond all human joy!

Oh! bliss beyond all earthly bliss!

If pitying Fate will not destroy

My hopes of such a flower as this!

How happy, fond, and heaven-possest,

My heart will be to tend and shield,

And guard upon my grateful breast

The pride of that sweet summer field!

FATAL GIFTS.

The poet's heart is a fatal boon,

And fatal his wondrous eye,

And the delicate ear,

So quick to hear,

Over the earth and sky,

Creation's mystic tune!

Soon, soon, but not too soon,

Does that ear grow deaf and that eye grow dim,

And nature becometh a waste for him,

Whom, born for another sphere,

Misery hath shipwrecked here!

For what availeth his sensitive heart

For the struggle and stormy strife

That the mariner-man,

Since the world began

Has braved on the sea of life?

With fearful wonder his eye doth start,

When it should be fixed on the outspread chart

That pointeth the way to golden shores--

Rent are his sails and broken his oars,

And he sinks without hope or plan,

With his floating caravan.

And love, that should be his strength and stay,

Becometh his bane full soon,

Like flowers that are born

Of the beams at morn,

But die of their heat ere noon.

Far better the heart were the sterile clay

Where the shining sands of the desert play,

And where never the perishing flow'ret gleams

Than the heart that is fed with its wither'd dreams,

And whose love is repelled with scorn,

Like the bee by the rose's thorn.

SWEET MAY.

The summer is come!--the summer is come!

With its flowers and its branches green,

Where the young birds chirp on the blossoming boughs,

And the sunlight struggles between:

And, like children, over the earth and sky

The flowers and the light clouds play;

But never before to my heart or eye

Came there ever so sweet a May

As this--

Sweet May! sweet May!

Oh! many a time have I wandered out

In the youth of the opening year,

When Nature's face was fair to my eye,

And her voice was sweet to my ear!

When I numbered the daisies, so few and shy,

That I met in my lonely way;

But never before to my heart or eye,

Came there ever so sweet a May

As this--

Sweet May! sweet May!

If the flowers delayed, or the beams were cold,

Or the blossoming trees were bare,

I had but to look in the poet's book,

For the summer is always there!

But the sunny page I now put by,

And joy in the darkest day!

For never before to my heart or eye,

Came there ever so sweet a May

As this--

Sweet May! sweet May!

For, ah! the belov'ed at length has come,

Like the breath of May from afar;

And my heart is lit with gentle eyes,

As the heavens by the evening star.

'Tis this that brightens the darkest sky,

And lengthens the faintest ray,

And makes me feel that to the heart or eye

There was never so sweet a May

As this--

Sweet May! sweet May!

FERDIAH;[28]

OR, THE FIGHT AT THE FORD.

An Episode from the Ancient Irish Epic Romance, "The Tain Bo Cuailgne;

or, the Cattle Prey of Cuailgne."

["The 'Tain Bo Cuailgne'" says the late Professor O'Curry, "is to Irish

what the Argonautic Expedition, or the Seven against Thebes, is to

Grecian history." For an account of this, perhaps the earliest epic

romance of Western Europe, see the Professor's "Lectures on the

Manuscript Materials of Irish History."

The Fight of Cuchullin with Ferdiah took place in the modern county of

Louth, at the ford of Ardee, which still preserves the name of the

departed champion, Ardee being the softened form of 'Ath Ferdiah,' or

Ferdiah's Ford.

The circumstances under which this famous combat took place are thus

succinctly mentioned by O'Curry, in his description of the Tain Bo

Cuailgne:--

"Cuchulainn confronts the invaders of his province, demands single

combat, and conjures his opponents by the laws of Irish chivalry (the

'Fir comhlainn') not to advance farther until they had conquered him.

This demand, in accordance with the Irish laws of warfare, is granted;

and then the whole contest is resolved into a succession of single

combats, in each of which Cuchulainn was victorious."--"Lectures," p.

37.

The original Irish text of this episode, with a literal translation, on

which the present metrical version is founded, may be consulted in the

appendix to the second series of the Lectures by O'Curry, vol. ii., p.

413.

The date assigned to the famous expedition of the Tain Bo Cuailgne, and

consequently to the episode which forms the subject of the present poem,

is the close of the century immediately preceding the commencement of

the Christian era. This will account for the complete absence of all

Christian allusions, so remarkable throughout the poem: an additional

proof, if that were required, of its extreme antiquity.]

Cuchullin the great chief had pitched his tent,

From Samhain[29] time, till now 'twas budding spring,

Fast by the Ford, and held the land at bay.

All Erin, save the fragment that he led,

His sword held back, nor dared a man to cross

The rippling Ford without Cuchullin's leave:

Chief after chief had fallen in the attempt;

And now the men of Erin through the night

Asked in dismay, "Oh! who shall be the next

To face the northern hound[30] and free the Ford?"

"Let it now be," with one accord they cried,

"Ferdiah, son of Daman Dare's son,

Of Domnann[31] lord, and all its warrior men."

The chiefs thus fated now to meet as foes

In early life were friends--had both been taught

All feats of arms by the same skilful hands

In Scatha's[32] school beneath the peaks of Skye,

Which still preserve Cuchullin's glorious name.

One feat of arms alone Cuchullin knew

Ferdiah knew not of--the fatal cast--

The dread expanding force of the gaebulg[33]

Flung from the foot resistless on the foe.

But, on the other hand, Ferdiah wore

A skin-protecting suit of flashing steel[34]

Surpassing all in Erin known till then.

At length the council closed, and to the chief

Heralds were sent to tell them that the choice

That night had fallen on him; but he within

His tent retired, received them not, nor went.

For well he knew the purport of their suit

Was this--that he should fight beside the Ford

His former fellow-pupil and his friend.

Then Mave,[35] the queen, her powerful druids sent,

Armed not alone with satire's scorpion stings,

But with the magic power even on the face,

By their malevolent taunts and biting sneers,

To raise three blistering blots[36] that typified

Disgrace, dishonour, and a coward's shame,

Which with their mortal venom him would kill,

Or on the hour, or ere nine days had sped,

If he declined the combat, and refused

Upon the instant to come forth with them,

And so, for honour's sake, Ferdiah came.

For he preferred to die a warrior's death,

Pierced to the heart by a proud foeman's spear,

Than by the serpent sting of slanderous tongues--

By satire and abuse, and foul reproach.

When to the court he came, where the great queen

Held revel, he received all due respect:

The sweet intoxicating cup went round,

And soon Ferdiah felt the power of wine.

Great were the rich rewards then promised him

For going forth to battle with the Hound:

A chariot worth seven cumals four times told,[37]

The outfit then of twelve well-chosen men

Made of more colours than the rainbow knows,

His own broad plains of level fair Magh Aie,[38]

To him and his assured till time was o'er

Free of all tribute, without fee or fine;

The golden brooch, too, from the queen's own cloak,

And, above all, fair Finavair[39] for wife.

But doubtful was Ferdiah of the queen,

And half excited by the fiery cup,

And half distrustful, knowing wily Mave,

He asked for more assurance of her faith.

Then she to him, in rhythmic rise of song,

And he in measured ranns to her replied.

MAVE.[40]

A rich reward of golden rings

I'll give to thee, Ferdiah fair,

The forest, where the wild bird sings,

the broad green plain, with me thou'lt share;

Thy children and thy children's seed,

for ever, until time is o'er,

Shall be from every service freed

within the sea-surrounding shore.

Oh, Daman's son, Ferdiah fair,

oh, champion of the wounds renowned,

For thou a charm`ed life dost bear,

since ever by the victories crowned,

Oh! why the proffered gifts decline,

oh! why reject the nobler fame,

Which many an arm less brave than thine,

which many a heart less bold, would claim?

FERDIAH.

Without a guarantee, O queen!

without assurance made most sure,

Thy grassy plains, thy woodlands green,

thy golden rings are but a lure.

The champion's place is not for me

until thou art most firmly bound,

For dreadful will the battle be

between me and Emania's Hound.

For such is Chuland's name,

O queen, and such is Chuland's nature, too,

The noble Hound, the Hound of fame,

the noble heart to dare and do,

The fearful fangs that never yield,

the agile spring so swift and light:

Ah! dread the fortune of the field!

ah! fierce will be the impending fight!

MAVE.

I'll give a champion's guarantee,

and with thee here a compact make,

That in the assemblies thou shalt be

no longer bound thy place to take;

Rich silver-bitted bridles fair--

for such each noble neck demands--

And gallant steeds that paw the air,

shall all be given into thy hands.

For thou, Ferdiah, art indeed

a truly brave and valorous man,

The first of all the chiefs I lead,

the foremost hero in the van;

My chosen champion now thou art,

my dearest friend henceforth thou'lt be,

The very closest to my heart,

from every toll and tribute free.

FERDIAH.

Without securities, I say,

united with thy royal word,

I will not go, when breaks the day,

to seek the combat at the Ford.

That contest, while time runs its course,

and fame records what ne'er should die,

Shall live for ever in full force,

until the judgment day draws nigh.

I will not go, though death ensue,

though thou through some demoniac rite,

Even as thy druid sorcerers do,

canst kill me with thy words of might:

I will not go the Ford to free,

until, O queen! thou here dost swear

By sun and moon,[41] by land and sea,

by all the powers of earth and air.

MAVE.

Thou shalt have all; do thou decide.

I'll give thee an unbounded claim;

Until thy doubts are satisfied,

oh! bind us by each sacred name;--

Bind us upon the hands of kings,

upon the hands of princes bind;

Bind us by every act that brings

assurance to the doubting mind.

Ask what thou wilt, and do not fear

that what thou wouldst cannot be wrought;

Ask what thou wilt, there standeth here

one who will ne'er refuse thee aught;

Ask what thou wilt, thy wildest wish

be certain thou shalt have this night,

For well I know that thou wilt kill this

man who meets thee in the fight.

FERDIAH.

I will have six securities,

no less will I accept from thee;

Be some our country's deities,

the lords of earth, and sky, and sea;

Be some thy dearest ones, O queen!

the darlings of thy heart and eye,

Before my fatal fall is seen

to-morrow, when the hosts draw nigh.

Do this, and though I lose my fame--

do this, and though my life I lose,

The glorious championship I'll claim,

the glorious risk will not refuse.

On, on, in equal strength and might

shall I advance, O queenly Mave,

And Uladh's hero meet in fight,

and battle with Cuchullin brave.

MAVE.

Though Domnal[42] it should be, the sun,

swift-speeding in his fiery car;

Though Niaman's[43] dread name be one,

the consort of the God of War;

These, even these I'll give, though hard

to lure them from their realms serene,

For though they list to lowliest bard,[44]

they may be deaf unto a queen.

Bind it on Morand, if thou wilt,

to make assurance doubly sure;

Bind it, nor dream that dream of guilt

that such a pact will not endure.

By spirits of the wave and wind,

by every spell, by every art,

Bind Carpri Min of Manand,

bind my sons, the darlings of my heart.

FERDIAH.

O Mave! with venom of deceit

that adder tongue of thine o'erflows,

Nor is thy temper over-sweet,

as well thine earlier consort knows.

Thou'rt truly worthy of thy fame

for boastful speech and lust of power,

And well dost thou deserve thy name--

the Brachail of Rathcroghan's tower.[45]

Thy words are fair and soft, O queen!

but still I crave one further proof--

Give me the scarf of silken sheen,

give me the speckled satin woof,

Give from thy cloak's empurpled fold

the golden brooch so fair to see,

And when the glorious gift I hold,

for ever am I bound to thee.

MAVE.

Oh! art thou not my chosen chief,

my foremost champion, sure to win,

My tower, my fortress of relief,

to whom I give this twisted pin?

These, and a thousand gifts more rare,

the treasures of the earth and sea,

Jewels a queen herself might wear,

my grateful hands will give to thee.

And when at length beneath thy sword

the Hound of Ulster shall lie low,

When thou hast ope'd the long-locked Ford,

and let the unguarded water flow,

Then shall I give my daughter's hand,

then my own child shall be thy bride--

She, the fair daughter of the land

where western Elgga's[46] waters glide.

And thus did Mave Ferdiah bind to fight

Six chosen champions on the morrow morn,

Or combat with Cuchullin all alone,

Whichever might to him the easier seem.

And he, by the gods' names and by her sons,

Bound her the promise she had made to keep,

The rich reward to pay to him in full,

If by his hand Cuchullin should be slain.

For Fergus, young Cuchullin's early friend,

The steeds that night were harnessed, and he flew

Swift in his chariot to the hero's tent.

"Glad am I at thy coming, O my friend!"

Cuchullin said: "My pupil, I accept

With joy thy welcome," Fergus quick replied:

"But what I come for is to give thee news

Of him who here will fight thee in the morn."

"I listen," said Cuchullin, "do thou speak."

"Thine own companion is it, thine own peer,

Thy rival in all daring feats of arms,

Ferdiah, son of Daman, Dare's son,

Of Domnand lord and all its warrior men."

"Be sure of this," Cuchullin made reply,

"That never wish of mine it could have been

A friend should thus come forth with me to fight."

"It therefore doth behove thee now, my son,"

Fergus replied, "to be upon thy guard,

Prepared at every point; for not like those

Who hitherto have come to fight with thee

Upon the 'Tain Bo Cuailgne,' is the chief,

Ferdiah, son of Daman, Dare's son."

"Here I have been," Cuchullin proudly said,

"From Samhain up to Imbule--from the first

Of winter days even to the first of spring--

Holding the four great provinces in check

That make up Erin, not one foot have I

Yielded to any man in all that time,

Nor even to him shall I a foot give way."

And thus the parley went: first Fergus spoke,

Cuchullin then to him in turn replied:

FERGUS.

Time is it, O Cuchullin, to arise,

Time for the fearful combat to prepare;

For hither with the anger in his eyes,

To fight thee comes Ferdiah called the Fair.

CUCHULLIN.

Here I have been, nor has the task been light,

Holding all Erin's warriors at bay:

No foot of ground have I in recreant flight

Yielded to any man or shunned the fray.

FERGUS.

When roused to rage, resistless in his might,

Fearless the man is, for his sword ne'er fails:

A skin-protecting coat of armour bright

He wears, 'gainst which no valour e'er prevails.

CUCHULLIN.

Oh! brave in arms, my Fergus, say not so,

Urge not thy story further on the night:--

On any friend, or facing any foe

I never was behind him in the fight.

FERGUS.

Brave is the man, I say, in battles fierce,

Him it will not be easy to subdue,

Swords cut him not, nor can the sharp spear pierce,

Strong as a hundred men to dare and do.

CUCHULLIN.

Well, should we chance to meet beside the Ford,

I and this chief whose valour ne'er has failed,

Story shall tell the fortune of each sword,

And who succumbed and who it was prevailed.

FERGUS.

Ah! liefer than a royal recompense

To me it were, O champion of the sword,

That thine it were to carry eastward hence

The proud Ferdiah's purple from the Ford.

CUCHULLIN.

I pledge my word, I vow, and not in vain,

Though in the combat we may be as one,

That it is I who shall the victory gain

Over the son of Daman, Dare's son.

FERGUS.

'Twas I that gathered eastward all the bands,

Revenging the foul wrong upon me wrought

By the Ultonians. Hither from their lands

The chiefs, the battle-warriors I have brought.

CUCHULLIN.

If Conor's royal strength had not decayed,

Hard would have been the strife on either side:

Mave of the Plain of Champions had not made

A foray then of so much boastful pride.

FERGUS.

To-day awaits thy hand a greater deed,

To battle with Ferdiah, Daman's son.

Hard, bloody weapons with sharp points thou'lt need,

Cuchullin, ere the victory be won.

Then Fergus to the court and camp went back,

While to his people and his tent repaired

Ferdiah, and he told them of the pact

Made that same night between him and the queen.

The dwellers in Ferdiah's tent that night

Were scant of comfort, a foreboding fear

Fell on their spirits and their hearts weighed down;

Because they knew in whatsoever fight

The mighty chiefs, the hundred-slaying two

Met face to face, that one of them must fall,

Or both, perhaps, or if but only one,

Certain were they it would their own lord be,

Since on the Tain Bo Cuailgne, it was plain

That no one with Cuchullin could contend.

Nor was their chief less troubled; but at first

The fumes of the late revel overpowered

His senses, and he slept a heavy sleep.

Later he woke, the intoxicating steam

Had left his brain, and now in sober calm

All the anxieties of the impending fight

Pressed on his soul and made him grave.[47] He rose

From off his couch, and bade his charioteer

Harness his pawing horses to the car.

The boy would fain persuade his lord to stay,

Because he loved his master, and he felt

He went but to his death; but he repelled

The youth's advice, and spoke to him these words--

"Oh! cease, my servant. I will not be turned

By any youth from what I have resolved."

And thus in speech and answer spoke the two--

FERDIAH.

Let us go to this challenge,

Let us fly to the Ford,

When the raven shall croak

O'er my blood-dripping sword.

Oh, woe for Cuchullin!

That sword will be red;

Oh, woe! for to-morrow

The hero lies dead.

CHARIOTEER.

Thy words are not gentle,

Yet rest where thou art,

'Twill be dreadful to meet,

And distressful to part.

The champion of Ulster!

Oh! think what a foe!

In that meeting there's grief,

In that journey there's woe!

FERDIAH.

Thy counsel is craven,

Thy caution I slight,

No brave-hearted champion

Should shrink from the fight.

The blood I inherit

Doth prompt me to do--

Let us go to the challenge,

To the Ford let us go!

Then were the horses of Ferdiah yoked

Unto the chariot, and he rode full speed

Unto the Ford of battle, and the day

Began to break, and all the east grew red.

Beside the Ford he halted. "Good, my friend,"

He said unto his servant, "Spread for me

The skins and cushions of my chariot here

Beneath me, that I may a full deep sleep

Enjoy before the hour of fight arrives;

For in the latter portion of the night

I slept not, thinking of the fight to come."

Unharnessed were the horses, and the boy

Spread out the cushions and the chariot's skins,

And heavy sleep fell on Ferdiah's lids.

Now of Cuchullin will I speak. He rose

Not until day with all its light had come,

In order that the men of Erin ne'er

Should say of him that it was fear or dread

That made him from a restless couch arise.

When in the fulness of its light at length

Shone forth the day, he bade his charioteer

Harness his horses and his chariot yoke.

"Harness my horses, good, my servant," said

Cuchullin, "and my chariot yoke for me,

For lo! an early-rising champion comes

To meet us here beside the Ford to-day--

Ferdiah, son of Daman, Dare's son."

"My lord, the steeds are ready to thy hand;

Thy chariot stands here yoked, do thou step in;

The noble car will not disgrace its lord."

Into the chariot, then, the dextrous, bold,

Red-sworded, battle-winning hero sprang

Cuchullin, son of Sualtam, at a bound.

Invisible Bocanachs and Bananachs,

And Geniti Glindi[48] shouted round the car,

And demons of the earth and of the air.

For thus the Tuatha de Danaans used

By sorceries to raise those fearful cries

Around him, that the terror and the fear

Of him should be the greater, as he swept

On with his staff of spirits to the war.

Soon was it when Ferdiah's charioteer

Heard the approaching clamour and the shout,

The rattle and the clatter, and the roar,

The whistle, and the thunder, and the tramp,

The clanking discord of the missive shields,

The clang of swords, the hissing sound of spears,

The tinkling of the helmet, the sharp crash

Of armour and of arms, the straining ropes,

The dangling bucklers, the resounding wheels,

The creaking chariot, and the proud approach

Of the triumphant champion of the Ford.

Clutching his master's robe, the charioteer

Cried out, "Ferdiah, rise! for lo, thy foes

Are on thee!" Then the Spirit of Insight fell

Prophetic on the youth, and thus he sang.

CHARIOTEER.

I hear the rushing of a car,

Near and more near its proud wheels run

A chariot for the God of War

Bursts--as from clouds the sun!

Over Bregg-Ross it speeds along,

Hark! its thunders peal afar!

Oh! its steeds are swift and strong,

And the Victories guide that car.

The Hound of Ulster shaketh the reins,

And white with foam is each courser's mouth;

The Hawk of Ulster swoops o'er the plains

To his quarry here in the south.

Like wintry storm that warrior's form,

Slaughter and Death beside him rush;

The groaning air is dark and warm,

And the low clouds bleed and blush.[49]

Oh, woe to him that is here on the hill,

Who is here on the hillock awaiting the Hound;

Last year it was in a vision of ill

I saw this sight and I heard this sound.

Methought Emania's Hound drew nigh,

Methought the Hound of Battle drew near,

I heard his steps and I saw his eye,

And again I see and I hear.

Then answer made Ferdiah in this wise:

"Why dost thou chafe me, talking of this man?

For thou hast never ceased to sing his praise

Since from his home he came. Thou surely art

Not without wage for this: but nathless know

Ailill and Mave have both foretold--by me

This man shall fall, shall fall for a reward

Just as the deed: This day he shall be slain,

For it is fated that I free the Ford.

'Tis time for the relief."--And thus they spake:

FERDIAH.

Yes, it is time for the relief;

Be silent then, nor speak his praise,

For prophecy forebodes this chief

Shall pass not the predestined days;

Does fate for this forego its claim,

That Cuailgne's champion here should come

In all his pride and pomp of fame?--

Be sure he comes but to his doom.

CHARIOTEER.

If Cuailgne's champion here I see

In all his pride and pomp of fame,

He little heeds the prophecy,

So swift his course, so straight his aim.

Towards us he flies, as flies the gleam

Of lightning, or as waters flow

From some high cliff o'er which the stream

Drops in the foaming depths below.

FERDIAH.

Highly rewarded thou must be,

For much reward thou sure canst claim,

Else why with such persistency

Thus sing his praises since he came?

And now that he approacheth nigh,

And now that he doth draw more near,

It seems it is to glorify

And not to attack him thou art here.

Not long Ferdiah's charioteer had gazed

With wondering look on the majestic car,

When, as with thunder-speed it wheeled more near,

He saw its whole construction and its plan:

A fair, flesh-seeking, four-peaked front it had,

And for its body a magnificent creit

Fashioned for war, in which the hero stood

Full-armed and brandishing a mighty spear,

While o'er his head a green pavilion hung;

Beneath, two fleetly-bounding, large-eared, fierce,

Whale-bellied, lively-hearted, high-flanked, proud,

Slender-legged, wide-hoofed, broad-buttocked, prancing steeds,

Exulting leaped and bore the car along:

Under one yoke, the broad-backed steed was gray,

Under the other, black the long-maned steed.

Like to a hawk swooping from off a cliff,

Upon a day of harsh and biting wind,

Or like a spring gust on a wild March morn

Rushing resistless o'er a level plain,

Or like the fleetness of a stag when first

'Tis started by the hounds in its first field--

So swept the horses of Cuchullin's car,

Bounding as if o'er fiery flags they flew,

Making the earth to shake beneath their tread,

And tremble 'neath the fleetness of their speed.

At length, upon the north side of the Ford,

Cuchullin stopped. Upon the southern bank

Ferdiah stood, and thus addressed the chief:

"Glad am I, O Cuchullin, thou hast come."

"Up to this day," Cuchullin made reply,

"Thy welcome would by me have been received

As coming from a friend, but not to-day.

Besides, 'twere fitter that I welcomed thee,

Than that to me thou shouldst the welcome give;

'Tis I that should go forth to fight with thee,

Not thou to me, because before thee are

My women and my children, and my youths,

My herds and flocks, my horses and my steeds."

Ferdiah, half in scorn, spake then these words--

And then Cuchullin answered in his turn.

"Good, O Cuchullin, what untoward fate

Has brought thee here to measure swords with me?

For when we two with Scatha lived, in Skye,

With Uatha, and with Aife, thou wert then

My page to spread my couch for me at night,

Or tie my spears together for the chase."

"True hast thou spoken," said Cuchullin; "yes,

I then was young, thy junior, and I did

For thee the services thou dost recall;

A different story shall be told of us

From this day forth, for on this day I feel

Earth holds no champion that I dare not fight!"

And thus invectives bitter, sharp and cold,

Between the two were uttered, and first spake

Ferdiah, then alternate each with each.

FERDIAH.

What has brought thee here, O Hound,

To encounter a strong foe?

O'er the trappings of thy steeds

Crimson-red thy blood shall flow.

Woe is in thy journey, woe;

Let the cunning leech prepare;

Shouldst thou ever reach thy home,

Thou shalt need his care.

CUCHULLIN.

I, who here with warriors fought,

With the lordly chiefs of hosts,

With a hundred men at once,

Little heed thy empty boasts.

Thee beneath the wave to place,

Thee to strike and thee to slay

In the first path of our fight

Am I here to-day.

FERDIAH.

Thy reproach in me behold,

For 'tis I that deed will do,

'Tis of me that Fame shall tell

He the Ultonian's champion slew.

Yes, in spite of all their hosts,

Yes, in spite of all their prayers:

So it shall long be told

That the loss was theirs.

CUCHULLIN.

How, then, shall we first engage--

Is it with the hard-edged sword?

In what order shall we go

To the battle of the Ford?

Shall we in our chariots ride?

Shall we wield the bloody spear?

How am I to hew thee down

With thy proud hosts here?

FERDIAH.

Ere the setting of the sun,

Ere shall come the darksome night,

If again thou must be told,

With a mountain thou shalt fight:

Thee the Ultonians will extol,

Thence impetuous wilt thou grow,

Oh! their grief, when through their ranks

Will thy spectre go!

CUCHULLIN.

Thou hast fallen in danger's gap,

Yes, thy end of life is nigh;

Sharp spears shall be plied on thee

Fairly 'neath the open sky:

Pompous thou wilt be and vain

Till the time for talk is o'er,

From this day a battle-chief

Thou shalt be no more.

FERDIAH.

Cease thy boastings, for the world

Sure no braggart hath like thee:

Thou art not the chosen chief--

Thou hast not the champion's fee:--

Without action, without force,

Thou art but a giggling page;

Yes, thou trembler, with thy heart

Like a bird's in cage.

CUCHULLIN.

When we were with Scatha once,

It but seemed our valour's due

That we should together fight,

Both as one our sports pursue.

Thou wert then my dearest friend,

Comrade, kinsman, thou wert all,--

Ah, how sad, if by my hand

Thou at last should fall.

FERDIAH.

Much of honour shalt thou lose,

We may then mere words forego:--

On a stake thy head shall be

Ere the early cock shall crow.

O Cuchullin, Cuailgne's pride,

Grief and madness round thee twine;

I will do thee every ill,

For the fault is thine.

"Good, O Ferdiah, 'twas no knightly act,"

Cuchullin said, "to have come meanly here,

To combat and to fight with an old friend,

Through instigation of the wily Mave,

Through intermeddling of Ailill the king;

To none of those who here before thee came

Was victory given, for they all fell by me:--

Thou too shalt win nor victory, nor increase

Of fame in this encounter thou dost dare,

For as they fell, so thou by me shall fall."

Thus was he saying and he spake these words,

To which Ferdiah listened, not unmoved.

CUCHULLIN.

Come not to me, O champion of the host,

Come not to me, Ferdiah, as my foe,

For though it is thy fate to suffer most,

All, all must feel the universal woe.

Come not to me defying what is right,

Come not to me, thy life is in my power;

Ah, the dread issue of each former fight

Why hast thou not remembered ere this hour?

Art thou not bright with diverse dainty arms,

A purple girdle and a coat of mail?

And yet to win the maid of peerless charms

For whom thou dar'st the battle thou shalt fail.

Yes, Finavair, the daughter of the queen,

The faultless form, the gold without alloy,

The glorious virgin of majestic mien,

Shalt not be thine, Ferdiah, to enjoy.

No, the great prize shall not by thee be won,--

A fatal lure, a false, false light is she,

To numbers promised and yet given to none,

And wounding many as she now wounds thee.

Break not thy vow, never with me to fight,

Break not the bond that once thy young heart gave,

Break not the truth we both so loved to plight,

Come not to me, O champion bold and brave!

To fifty champions by her smiles made slaves

The maid was proffered, and not slight the gift;

By me they have been sent into their graves,

From me they met destruction sure and swift.

Though vauntingly Ferbaeth my arms defied,

He of a house of heroes prince and peer,

Short was the time until I tamed his pride

With one swift cast of my true battle-spear.

Srub Daire's valour too had swift decline:

Hundreds of women's secrets he possessed,

Great at one time was his renown as thine,

In cloth of gold, not silver, was he dressed.

Though 'twas to me the woman was betrothed

On whom the chiefs of the fair province smile,

To shed thy blood my spirit would have loathed

East, west, or north, or south of all the isle.

"Good, O Ferdiah," still continuing, spoke

Cuchullin, "thus it is that thou shouldst not

Have come with me to combat and to fight;

For when we were with Scatha, long ago,

With Uatha and with Aife, we were wont

To go together to each battle-field,

To every combat and to every fight,

Through every forest, every wilderness,

Through every darksome path and dangerous way."

And thus he said and thus he spake these words:

CUCHULLIN.

We were heart-comrades then,--

Comrades in crowds of men,

In the same bed have lain,

When slumber sought us;

In countries far and near,

Hurling the battle spear,

Chasing the forest deer,

As Scatha taught us.

"O Cuchullin of the beautiful feats,"

Replied Ferdiah, "though we have pursued

Together thus the arts of war and peace,

And though the bonds of friendship that we swore

Thou hast recalled to mind, from me shall come

Thy first of wounds. O Hound, remember not

Our old companionship, which shall not now

Avail thee, shall avail thee not, O Hound!"

"Too long here have we waited in this way,"

Again resumed Ferdiah. "To what arms,

Say then, Cuchullin, shall we now resort?"

"The choice of arms is thine until the night,"

Cuchullin made reply; "for so it chanced

That thou shouldst be the first to reach the Ford."

"Dost thou at all remember," then rejoined

Ferdiah, "those swift missive spears with which

We practised oft with Scatha in our youth,

With Uatha and with Aife, and our friends?"

"Them I, indeed, remember well," replied

Cuchullin. "If thou dost remember well,

Let us to them resort," Ferdiah said.

Their missive weapons then on either side

They both resorted to. Upon their arms

They braced two emblematic missive shields,

And their eight well-turned-handled lances took,

Their eight quill-javelins also, and their eight

White ivory-hilted swords, and their eight spears,

Sharp, ivory-hafted, with hard points of steel.

Betwixt the twain the darts went to and fro,

Like bees upon the wing on a fine day;

No cast was made that was not sure to hit.

From morn to nigh mid-day the missiles flew,

Till on the bosses of the brazen shields

Their points were blunted, but though true the aim,

And excellent the shooting, the defence

Was so complete that not a wound was given,

And neither champion drew the other's blood.

"'Tis time to drop these feats," Ferdiah said,

"For not by such as these shall we decide

Our battle here this day." "Let us desist,"

Cuchullin answered, "if the time hath come."

They ceased, and threw their missile shafts aside

Into the hands of their two charioteers.

"What weapons, O Cuchullin, shall we now

Resort to?" said Ferdiah. "Unto thee,"

Cuchullin answered, "doth belong the choice

Of arms until the night, because thou wert

The first that reached the Ford." "Well, let us, then,"

Ferdiah said, "resume our straight, smooth, hard,

Well-polished spears with their hard flaxen strings."

"Let us resume them, then," Cuchullin said.

They braced upon their arms two stouter shields,

And then resorted to their straight, smooth, hard,

Well-polished spears, with their hard flaxen strings.[50]

'Twas now mid-day, and thus 'till eventide

They shot against each other with the spears.

But though the guard was good on either side,

The shooting was so perfect that the blood

Ran from the wounds of each, by each made red.

"Let us now, O Cuchullin," interposed

Ferdiah, "for the present time desist."

"Let us indeed desist," Cuchullin said

"If, O Ferdiah, the fit time hath come."

They ceased, and laid their gory weapons down,

Their faithful charioteers' attendant care.

Each to the other gently then approached,

Each round the other's neck his hands entwined,

And gave him three fond kisses on the cheek.

Their horses fed in the same field that night,

Their charioteers were warmed at the same fire,

Their charioteers beneath their bodies spread

Green rushes, and beneath the heads the down

Of wounded men's soft pillows. Then the skilled

Professors of the art of healing came

With herbs, which to the scars of all their wounds

They put. Of every herb and healing plant

That to Cuchullin's wound they did apply,

He would an equal portion westward send

Over the Ford, Ferdiah's wounds to heal.

So that the men of Erin could not say,

If it should chance Ferdiah fell by him,

That it was through superior skill and care

Cuchullin was enabled him to slay.

Of each kind, too, of palatable food

And sweet, intoxicating, pleasant drink,

The men of Erin to Ferdiah sent,

He a fair moiety across the Ford

Sent northward to Cuchullin, where he lay;

Because his own purveyors far surpassed

In numbers those the Ulster chief retained:

For all the federate hosts of Erin were

Purveyors to Ferdiah, with the hope

That he would beat Cuchullin from the Ford.

The Bregians[51] only were Cuchullin's friends,

His sole purveyors, and their wont it was

To come to him and talk to him at night.

That night they rested there. Next morn they rose

And to the Ford of battle early came.

"What weapons shall we use to-day?" inquired

Cuchullin. "Until night the choice is thine,"

Replied Ferdiah; "for the choice of arms

Has hitherto been mine." "Then let us take

Our great broad spears to-day," Cuchullin said,

"And may the thrusting bring us to an end

Sooner than yesterday's less powerful darts.

Let then our charioteers our horses yoke

Beneath our chariots, so that we to-day

May from our horses and our chariots fight."

Ferdiah answered: "Let it so be done."

And then they braced their two broad, full-firm shields

Upon their arms that day, and in their hands

That day they took their great broad-bladed spears.

And thus from early morn to evening's close

They smote each other with such dread effect

That both were pierced, and both made red with gore,--

Such wounds, such hideous clefts in either breast

Lay open to the back, that if the birds

Cared ever through men's wounded frames to pass,

They might have passed that day, and with them borne

Pieces of quivering flesh into the air.

When evening came, their very steeds were tired,

Their charioteers depressed, and they themselves

Worn out--even they the champions bold and brave.

"Let us from this, Ferdiah, now desist,"

Cuchullin said; "for see, our charioteers

Droop, and our very horses flag and fail,

And when fatigued they yield, so well may we."

And further thus he spoke, persuading rest:--

CUCHULLIN.

Not with the obstinate rage and spite

With which Fomorian pirates fight

Let us, since now has fallen the night,

Continue thus our feud;

In brief abeyance it may rest,

Now that a calm comes o'er each breast:--

When with new light the world is blest,

Be it again renewed."

"Let us desist, indeed," Ferdiah said,

"If the fit time hath come."--And so they ceased.

From them they threw their arms into the hands

Of their two charioteers. Each of them came

Forward to meet the other. Each his hands

Put round the other's neck, and thus embraced,

Gave to him three fond kisses on the cheek.

Their horses fed in the same field that night;

Their charioteers were warmed by the same fire.

Their charioteers beneath their bodies spread

Green rushes, and beneath their heads the down

Of wounded men's soft pillows. Then the skilled

Professors of the art of healing came

To tend them and to cure them through the night.

But they for all their skill could do no more,

So numerous and so dangerous were the wounds,

The cuts, and clefts, and scars so large and deep,

But to apply to them the potent charms

Of witchcraft, incantations, and barb spells,

As sorcerers use, to stanch the blood and stay

The life that else would through the wounds escape:--

Of every charm of witchcraft, every spell,

Of every incantation that was used

To heal Cuchullin's wounds, a full fair half

Over the Ford was westward sent to heal

Ferdiah's hurts: of every sort of food,

And sweet, intoxicating, pleasant drink

The men of Erin to Ferdiah sent,

He a fair moiety across the Ford

Sent northward to Cuchullin where he lay,

Because his own purveyors far surpassed

In number those the Ulster chief retained.

For all the federate hosts of Erin were

Purveyors to Ferdiah, with the hope

That he would beat Cuchullin from the Ford.

The Bregians only were Cuchullin's friends--

His sole purveyors--and their wont it was

To come to him, and talk with him at night.

They rested there that night. Next morn they rose,

And to the Ford of battle forward came.

That day a great, ill-favoured, lowering cloud

Upon Ferdiah's face Cuchullin saw.

"Badly," said he, "dost thou appear this day,

Ferdiah, for thy hair has duskier grown

This day, and a dull stupour dims thine eyes,

And thine own face and form, and what thou wert

In outward seeming have deserted thee."

"'Tis not through fear of thee that I am so,"

Ferdiah said, "for Erin doth not hold

This day a champion I could not subdue."

And thus betwixt the twain this speech arose,

And thus Cuchullin mourned and he replied:

CUCHULLIN.

O Ferdiah, if it be thou,

Certain am I that on thy brow

The blush should burn and the shame should rise,

Degraded man whom the gods despise,

Here at a woman's bidding to wend

To fight thy fellow-pupil and friend.

FERDIAH.

O Cuchullin, O valiant man,

Inflicter of wounds since the war began,

O true champion, a man must come

To the fated spot of his final home,--

To the sod predestined by fate's decree

His resting-place and his grave to be.

CUCHULLIN.

Finavair, the daughter of Mave,

Although thou art her willing slave,

Not for thy long-felt love has been

Promised to thee by the wily queen,--

No, it was but to test thy might

That thou wert lured into this fatal fight.

FERDIAH.

My might was tested long ago

In many a battle, as thou dost know,

Long, O Hound of the gentle rule,

Since we fought together in Scatha's school:

Never a braver man have I seen,

Never, I feel, hath a braver been.

CUCHULLIN.

Thou art the cause of what has been done,

O son of Daman, Dare's son,

Of all that has happened thou art the cause,

Whom hither a woman's counsel draws--

Whom hither a wily woman doth send

To measure swords with thy earliest friend.

FERDIAH.

If I forsook the field, O Hound,

If I had turned from the battleground--

This battleground without fight with thee,

Hard, oh, hard had it gone with me;

Bad should my name and fame have been

With King Ailill and with Mave the queen.

CUCHULLIN.

Though Mave of Croghan had given me food,

Even from her lips, though all of good

That the heart can wish or wealth can give

Were offered to me, there does not live

A king or queen on the earth for whom

I would do thee ill or provoke thy doom.

FERDIAH.

O Cuchullin, thou victor in fight,

Of battle triumphs the foremost knight;

To what result the fight may lead,

'Twas Mave alone that prompted the deed;

Not thine the fault, not thine the blame,

Take thou the victory and the fame.

CUCHULLIN.

My faithful heart is a clot of blood,

A feud thus forced cannot end in good;

Oh, woe to him who is here to be slain!

Oh, grief to him who his life will gain!

For feats of valour no strength have I

To fight the fight where my friend must die.

"A truce to these invectives," then broke in

Ferdiah; "we far other work this day

Have yet to do than rail with woman's words.

Say, what shall be our arms in this day's fight?"

"Till night," Cuchullin said, "the choice is thine,

For yester morn the choice was given to me."

"Let us," Ferdiah answered, "then resort

Unto our heavy, sharp, hard-smiting swords,

For we are nearer to the end to-day

Of this our fight, by hewing, than we were

On yesterday by thrusting of the spears."

"So let us do, indeed," Cuchullin said.

Then on their arms two long great shields they took,

And in their hands their sharp, hard-smiting swords.

Each hewed the other with such furious strokes

That pieces larger than an infant's head

Of four weeks' old were cut from out the thighs

And great broad shoulder-blades of each brave chief.

And thus they persevered from early morn

Till evening's close in hewing with the swords.

"Let us desist," at length Ferdiah said.

"Let us indeed desist, if the fit time

Hath come," Cuchullin said; and so they ceased.

From them they cast their arms into the hands

Of their two charioteers; and though that morn

Their meeting was of two high-spirited men,

Their separation, now that night had come,

Was of two men dispirited and sad.

Their horses were not in one field that night,

Their charioteers were warmed not at one fire.

That night they rested there, and in the morn

Ferdiah early rose and sought alone

The Ford of battle, for he knew that day

Would end the fight, and that the hour drew nigh

When one or both of them should surely fall.

Then was it for the first time he put on

His battle suit of battle and of fight,

Before Cuchullin came unto the Ford.

That battle suit of battle and of fight

Was this: His apron of white silk, with fringe

Of spangled gold around it, he put on

Next his white skin. A leather apron then,

Well sewn, upon his body's lower part

He placed, and over it a mighty stone

As large as any mill-stone was secured.

His firm, deep, iron apron then he braced

Over the mighty stone--an apron made

Of iron purified from every dross--

Such dread had he that day of the Gaebulg.

His crested helm of battle on his head

He last put on--a helmet all ablaze

From forty gems in each compartment set,

Cruan, and crystal, carbuncles of fire,

And brilliant rubies of the Eastern world.

In his right hand a mighty spear he seized,

Destructive, sharply-pointed, straight and strong:--

On his left side his sword of battle swung,

Curved, with its hilt and pommel of red gold.

Upon the slope of his broad back he placed

His dazzling shield, around whose margin rose

Fifty huge bosses, each of such a size

That on it might a full-grown hog recline,

Exclusive of the larger central boss

That raised its prominent round of pure red gold.

Full many noble, varied, wondrous feats

Ferdiah on that day displayed, which he

Had never learned at any tutor's hand,

From Uatha, or from Aife, or from her,

Scatha, his early nurse in lonely Skye:--

But which were all invented by himself

That day, to bring about Cuchullin's fall.

Cuchullin to the Ford approached and saw

The many noble, varied, wondrous feats

Ferdiah on that day displayed on high.

"O Laegh, my friend," Cuchullin thus addressed

His charioteer, "I see the wondrous feats

Ferdiah doth display on high to-day:

All these on me in turn shall soon be tried,

And therefore note, that if it so should chance

I shall be first to yield, be sure to taunt,

Excite, revile me, and reproach me so,

That wrath and rage in me may rise the more:--

If I prevail, then let thy words be praise,

Laud me, congratulate me, do thy best

To stimulate my courage to its height."

"It shall be done, Cuchullin," Laegh replied.

Then was it that Cuchullin first assumed

His battle suit of battle: then he tried

Full many, various, noble, wondrous feats

He never learned from any tutor's hands,

From Uatha, or from Aife, or from her,

Scatha, his early nurse in lonely Skye.

Ferdiah saw these various feats, and knew

Against himself they soon would be applied.

"Say, O Ferdiah, to what arms shall we

Resort in this day's fight?" Cuchullin said.

Ferdiah answered, "Unto thee belongs

The choice of weapons now until the night."

"Let us then try the Ford Feat on this day,"

Replied Cuchullin. "Let us then, indeed,"

Rejoined Ferdiah, with a careless air

Consenting, though in truth it was to him

The cause of grief to say so, since he knew

That in the Ford Feat lay Cuchullin's strength,

And that he never failed to overthrow

Champion or hero in that last appeal.

Great was the feat that was performed that day

In and beside the Ford: the mighty two,

The two great heroes, warriors, champions, chiefs

Of western Europe--the two open hands

Laden with gifts of the north-western world,--

The two beloved pillars that upheld

The valour of the Gaels--the two strong keys

That kept the bravery of the Gaels secure--

Thus to be brought together from afar

To fight each other through the meddling schemes

Of Ailill and his wily partner Mave.

From each to each the missive weapons flew

From dawn of early morning to mid-day;

And when mid-day had come, the ire of both

Became more furious, and they drew more near.

Then was it that Cuchullin made a spring

From the Ford's brink, and came upon the boss

Of the great shield Ferdiah's arm upheld,

That thus he might, above the broad shield's rim,

Strike at his head. Ferdiah with a touch

Of his left elbow, gave the shield a shake

And cast Cuchullin from him like a bird,

Back to the brink of the Ford. Again he sprang

From the Ford's brink, and came upon the boss

Of the great shield once more, to strike his head

Over the rim. Ferdiah with a stroke

Of his left knee made the great shield to ring,

And cast Cuchullin back upon the brink,

As if he only were a little child.

Laegh saw the act. "Alas! indeed," said Laegh,

"The warrior casts thee from him in the way

That an abandoned woman would her child.

He flings thee as a river flings its foam;

He grinds thee as a mill would grind fresh malt;

He fells thee as the axe does fell the oak;

He binds thee as the woodbine binds the tree;

He darts upon thee as a hawk doth dart

Upon small birds, so that from this hour forth

Until the end of time, thou hast no claim

Or title to be called a valorous man:

Thou little puny phantom form," said Laegh.

Then with the rapid motion of the wind,

The fleetness of a swallow on the wing,

The fierceness of a dragon, and the strength

Of a roused lion, once again up sprang

Cuchullin, high into the troubled air,

And lighted for the third time on the boss

Of the broad shield, to strike Ferdiah's head

Over the rim. The warrior shook the shield,

And cast Cuchullin mid-way in the Ford,

With such an easy effort that it seemed

As if he scarcely deigned to shake him off.

Then, as he lay, a strange distortion came

Upon Cuchullin; as a bladder swells

Inflated by the breath, to such a size

And fulness did he grow, that he became

A fearful, many-coloured, wondrous Tuaig--

Gigantic shape, as big as a man of the sea,

Or monstrous Fomor, so that now his form

In perfect height over Ferdiah stood.

So close the fight was now, that their heads met

Above, their feet below, their arms half-way

Over the rims and bosses of their shields:--

So close the fight was now, that from their rims

Unto their centres were their shields cut through,

And loosed was every rivet from its hold;

So close the fight was now, that their strong spears

Were turned and bent and shivered point and haft;

Such was the closeness of the fight they made

That the invisible and unearthly hosts

Of Spirits, Bocanachs and Bananachs,

And the wild wizard people of the glen

And of the air the demons, shrieked and screamed

From their broad shields' reverberating rim,

From their sword-hilts and their long-shafted spears:

Such was the closeness of the fight they made,

They forced the river from its natural course,

Out of its bed, so that it might have been

A couch whereon a king or queen might lie,

For not a drop of water it retained,

Except what came from the great tramp and splash

Of the two heroes fighting in its midst.

Such was the fierceness of the fight they waged,

That a wild fury seized upon the steeds

The Gaels had gathered with them; in affright

They burst their traces and their binding ropes,

Nay even their chains, and panting fled away.

The women, too, and youths, by equal fears

Inspired and scared, and all the varied crowd

Of followers and non-combatants who there

Were with the men of Erin, from the camp

South-westward broke away, and fled the Ford.

At the edge-feat of swords they were engaged

When this surprise occurred, and it was then

Ferdiah an unguarded moment found

Upon Cuchullin, and he struck him deep,

Plunging his straight-edged sword up to the hilt

Within his body, till his girdle filled

With blood, and all the Ford ran red with gore

From the brave battle-warrior's veins outshed.

This could Cuchullin now no longer bear

Because Ferdiah still the unguarded spot

Struck and re-struck with quick, strong, stubborn strokes;

And so he called aloud to Laegh, the son

Of Riangabra, for the dread Gaebulg.

The manner of that fearful feat was this:

Adown the current was it sent, and caught

Between the toes: a single spear would make

The wound it made when entering, but once lodged

Within the body, thirty barbs outsprung,

So that it could not be withdrawn until

The body was cut open where it lay.

And when of the Gaebulg Ferdiah heard

The name, he made a downward stroke of his shield,

To guard his body. Then Cuchullin thrust

The unerring thorny spear straight o'er the rim,

And through the breast-plate of his coat of mail,

So that its farther half was seen beyond

His body, after passing through his heart.

Ferdiah gave an upward stroke of his shield,

His breast to cover, though it was "the relief

After the danger." Then the servant set

The dread Gaebulg adown the flowing stream;

Cuchullin caught it firmly 'twixt his toes,

And from his foot a fearful cast he threw

Upon Ferdiah with unerring aim.

Swift through the well-wrought iron apron guard

It passed, and through the stone which was as large

As a huge mill-stone, cracking it in three,

And so into his body, every part

Of which was filled with the expanding barbs

"That is enough: by that one blow I fall,"

Ferdiah said. "Indeed, I now may own

That I am sickly after thee this day,

Though it behoved not thee that I should fall

By stroke of thine;" and then these dying words

He added, tottering back upon the bank:

FERDIAH.

O Hound, so famed for deeds of valour doing,

'Twas not thy place my death to give to me;

Thine is the fault of my most certain ruin,

And yet 'tis best to have my blood on thee.

The wretch escapes not from his false position,

Who to the gap of his destruction goes;

Alas! my death-sick voice needs no physician,

My end hath come--my life's stream seaward flows.

The natural ramparts of my breast are broken,

In its own gore my struggling heart is drowned:--

Alas! I have not fought as I have spoken,

For thou hast killed me in the fight, O Hound!

Cuchullin towards him ran, and his two arms

Clasping about him, lifted him and bore

The body in its armour and its clothes

Across the Ford unto the northern bank,

In order that the slain should thus be placed

Upon the north bank of the Ford, and not

Among the men of Erin, on the west.

Cuchullin laid Ferdiah down, and then

A sudden trance, a faintness on him came

When bending o'er the body of his friend.

Laegh saw the weakness, which was seen as well

By all the men of Erin, who arose

Upon the moment to attack him there.

"Good, O Cuchullin," Laegh exclaimed, "arise,

For all the men of Erin hither come.

It is no single combat they will give,

Since fair Ferdiah, Daman's son, the son

Of Dare, by thy hands has here been slain."

"O servant, what availeth me to rise,"

Cuchullin said, "since he hath fallen by me?"

And so the servant said, and so replied

Cuchullin, in his turn, unto the end;

LAEGH.

Arise, Emania's slaughter-hound, arise,

Exultant pride should be thy mood this day:--

Ferdiah of the hosts before thee lies--

Hard was the fight and dreadful was the fray.

CUCHULLIN.

Ah, what availeth me a hero's pride?

Madness and grief are in my heart and brain,

For the dear blood with which my hand is dyed--

For the dear body that I here have slain.

LAEGH.

It suits thee ill to shed these idle tears,

Fitter by far for thee a fiercer mood--

At thee he flung the flying pointed spears,

Malicious, wounding, dripping, dyed with blood.

CUCHULLIN.

Even though he left me crippled, maimed, and lame,

Even though I lost this arm that now but bleeds,

All would I bear, but now the fields of fame

No more shall see Ferdiah mount his steeds.

LAEGH.

More pleasing is the victory thou hast gained,

More pleasing to the women of Creeve Rue,

He to have died and thou to have remained,

To them the brave who fell here are too few.

From that black day in brilliant Mave's long reign

Thou camest out of Cuailgne it has been--

Her people slaughtered and her champions slain--

A time of desolation to the queen.

When thy great plundered flock was borne away,

Thou didst not lie with slumber-seal`ed eyes,--

Then 'twas thy boast to rise before the day:--

Arise again, Emania's Hound, arise!

So Laegh addressed the hero, though he seemed

To hear him not, but mourned his friend the more.

And thus he spoke these words, and thus he moaned:

"Alas! Ferdiah, an unhappy chance

It was for thee that thou didst not consult

Some of the heroes who my prowess knew,

Before thou camest forth to meet me here,

In the hard battle combat by the Ford.

Unhappy was it that it was not Laegh,

The son of Riangabra, thou didst ask

About our fellow-pupilship--a bond

That might the unnatural combat so have stayed;

Unhappy was it that thou didst not ask

Honest advice from Fergus, son of Roy;

Or that it was not battle-winning, proud,

Exulting, ruddy Connall thou didst ask

About our fellow-pupilship of old.

For well do these men know there will not be

A being born among the Conacians who

Shall do the deeds of valour thou hast done

From this day forth until the end of time.

For if thou hadst consulted these brave men

About the places where the assemblies meet,

About the plightings and the broken vows

Uttered too oft by Connaught's fair-haired dames;

If thou hadst asked about the games and sports

Played with the targe and shield, the sword and spear,

If of backgammon or the moves of chess,

Or races with the chariots and the steeds,

They never would have found a champion's arm

As strong to pierce a hero's flesh as thine,

O rose-cloud hued Ferdiah! None to raise

The red-mouthed vulture's hoarse, inviting croak

Unto the many-coloured flocks, nor one

Who will for Croghan combat like to thee,

O red-cheeked son of Daman!" Thus he said,

Then standing o'er Ferdiah he resumed:

"Oh! great has been the treachery and fraud

The men of Erin practised upon thee,

Ferdiah, thus to bring thee here to fight

With me, 'gainst whom it is no easy task

Upon the Tain Bo Cuailgne to contend."

And thus he said, and thus again he spake:

CUCHULLIN.

O my Ferdiah, O my friend, forgive:

'Tis not my hand but treachery lays thee low:--

Thou doomed to die and I condemned to live,

Both doomed for ever to be severed so!

When we were far away in our young prime,

With Scatha, dread Buannan's chosen friend,

A vow we made, that till the end of time,

With hostile arms we never should contend.

Dear was thy lovely ruddiness to me,

Dear was thy gray-blue eye, so bright and clear,--

Thy comely, perfect form how sweet to see!

Thy wisdom and thy eloquence how dear!

In body-cutting combat, on the field

Of spears, when all is lost or all is won,

None braver ever yet held up a shield,

Than thou, Ferdiah, Daman's ruddy son.

Never since Aife's only son I slew,

Not knowing who the gallant youth might be,--

Ah! hapless deed, that still my heart doth rue!--

None have I found, Ferdiah, like to thee.

Thy dream it was to win fair Finavair,

From Mave her beauteous daughter's hand to gain;

As soon might'st thou in the wide fields of air

The glancing sunbeam's swift-winged flight restrain.

He paused awhile, still gazing on the dead,

Then to his charioteer he spoke: "Friend Laegh,

Strip now Ferdiah, take his armour off,

That I may see the golden brooch of Mave,

For which he undertook the fatal fight."

Laegh took the armour then from off his breast,

And then Cuchullin saw the golden pin

That cost so dear, and then these words he spake:

CUCHULLIN.

Alas! O brooch of gold!

O chief, whose fame each poet knows,

O hero of stout slaughtering blows,

Thy arm was brave and bold.

Thy yellow flowing hair,

Thy purple girdle's silken fold

Still even in death around thee rolled,--

Thy twisted jewel rare.

Thy noble beaming eyes,

Now closed in death, make mine grow dim,

Thy dazzling shield with golden rim,

Thy chess a king might prize.

Oh! piteous to behold,

My fellow-pupil falls by me:

It was an end that should not be,

Alas! O brooch of gold!

After another pause Cuchullin spoke:--

"O Laegh, my friend, open Ferdiah now,

And from his body the Gaebulg take out,

For I without my weapon cannot be."

Laegh then approached, and with a strong, sharp knife

Opened Ferdiah's body, and drew out

The dread Gaebulg. And when Cuchullin saw

His bloody weapon lying red beside

Ferdiah on the ground, again he thought

Of all their past career, and thus he said:

CUCHULLIN.

Sad is my fate that I should see thee lying,

Sad is the fate, Ferdiah, I deplore,--

I with my weapon which thy blood is dyeing,

Thou on the ground a mass of streaming gore.

When we were young, where Scatha's eye hath seen us

Fond fellow-pupils in her schools of Skye,

Never was heard the angry word between us,

Never was seen the angry spear to fly.

Scatha, with words of eloquent persuading,

Roused us in many a glorious feat to join;

"Go," she exclaimed, "each other bravely aiding,

Go forth to battle with the dread Germoin."

I to Ferdiah said: "Oh, come, my brother,"

I to the ever-generous Luaigh said,

I to fair Baetan's son, and many another:

"Come, let us go and fight this foe so dread."

Crossing the sea in ships of peaceful traders,

All of us came to lone Lind Formairt's lake,

With us we brought four hundred brave invaders

Out of the islands of the Athisech.

I and Ferdiah were the first to enter,

Where he himself, the dread Germoin, held rule,

Rind, Nial's son, I clove from head to centre,

Ruad I killed, the son of Finniule.

First on the shore, as swift our fleet ships flew there,

Blath, son of Calba of red swords, was slain;

Struck by Ferdiah, Luaigh also slew there

Fierce rude Mugarne of the Torrian main.

Bravely we battled against that court enchanted,

Full four times fifty heroes fell by me:

He, by their savage onslaught nothing daunted,

Slew ox-like monsters clambering from the sea.

Wily Germoin, amid so many slaughters,

We took alive as trophy of the field,

Him o'er the broad, bright sea of spangled waters

We bore to Scatha of the bright broad shield.

She, our famed tutoress, with kind endeavour,

Bound us from that day forth with heart and hand,

When met fair Elgga's tribes, that we should never

In hostile ranks before each other stand.

Oh, day of woe! oh, day without a morrow!

Oh, fatal Tuesday morning, when the bud

Of his young life was scattered! Oh! the sorrow,

To give the friend I loved a drink of blood!

Ah, if I saw thee among heroes lying

Dead on some glorious battlefield of Greece,

Soon would I follow thee, and proudly dying,

Sleep with my friend triumphant and at peace.

We, Scatha's pupils, ah, how sad the story!

Thou to be dead and I to be alive:

I to be wounded here, all gashed and gory,

Thou never more thy chariot's steeds to drive.

We, Scatha's pupils, ah! how sad the story;

Sad is the fate to which we both are led:

I to be wounded here, all gashed and gory,

And thou, alas! my friend, to lie here dead.

We, Scatha's pupils, ah, how sad the story!

Sad is the deed and sorrowful the wrong:

Thou to be dead without thy meed of glory,

And I, oh! shame, to be alive and strong!

Laegh interposed at length, and thus he said:

"Good, O Cuchullin, let us leave the Ford,

For long have we been here, by far too long."

"Let us then leave it now," Cuchullin said,

"O Laegh, my friend, but know that every fight

In which I hitherto have drawn my sword,

Has been but as a pastime and a sport

Compared with this one with Ferdiah fought."

And he was saying, and he spake these words:

CUCHULLIN.

Until Ferdiah sought the Ford,

I played but with the spear and sword:

Alike the teaching we received,

Alike were glad, alike were grieved,

Alike were we by Scatha's grace

Deemed worthy of the highest place.

Until Ferdiah sought the Ford,

I played but with the spear and sword:

Alike our habits and our ways,

Alike our prowess and our praise,

Alike the trophies of the brave,

The glittering shields that Scatha gave.

Until Ferdiah sought the Ford,

I played but with the spear and sword:

How dear to me, ah! who can know?

This golden pillar here laid low,

This mighty tree so strong and tall,

The chief, the champion of us all!

Until Ferdiah sought the Ford,

I played but with the spear and sword:

The lion rushing with a roar,

The wave that swallows up the shore,

When storm-winds blow and heaven is dim,

Could only be compared to him.

Until Ferdiah sought the Ford,

I played but with the spear and sword:

Through me the friend I loved is dead,

A cloud is ever on my head--

The mountain form, the giant frame,

Is now a shadow and a name.

The countless legions of the 'Tain,'

Those hands of mine have turned and slain:

Their men and steeds before me died,

Their flocks and herds on either side,

Though numerous were the hosts that came

From Croghan's Rath of fatal fame.

Though less than half the foes I led,

Before me soon my foes lay dead:

Never to gory battle pressed,

Never was nursed on Bamba's breast,

Never from sons of kings there came

A hero of more glorious fame.[52]

28. This poem is now published for the first time in its complete

state.

29. Autumn; strictly the last night in October. (See O'Curry's "Sick

Bed of Cuchullin," "Atlantis," i., p. 370).

30. Culann was the name of Conor MacNessa's smith, and it was from him

that Setanta derived the name of Cu-Chulainn, or Culann's Hound.

31. Iorrus Domnann, now Erris, in the county of Mayo. It derived its

name ("Bay of the Domnanns," or "Deep-diggers,") from the party of the

Firbolgs, so called, having settled there, under their chiefs Genann and

Rudhraighe. (See "The Fate of the Children of Lir," by O'Curry,

Atlantis, iv., p. 123; Dr. Reeve's "Adamnan's Life of St. Columba," note

6, p. 31; O'Flaherty's "Ogygia," p. 280; and Hardiman's "West

Connaught," by O'Flaherty, published by the Irish Archaeological

Society.)

32. The name of Scatha, the Amazonian instructress of Ferdiah and

Cuchullin, is still preserved in Dun Sciath, in the island of Skye,

where great Cuchullin's name and glory yet linger. The Cuchullin

Mountains, named after him, "those thunder-smitten, jagged, Cuchullin

peaks of Skye," the grandest mountain range in Great Britain, attract to

that remote island of the Hebrides many worshippers of the sublime and

beautiful in nature, whose enjoyments would be largely enhanced if they

knew the heroic legends which are connected with the glorious scenes

they have travelled so far to witness. Cuchullin is one of the foremost

characters in MacPherson's "Ossian," but the quasi-translator of Gaelic

poems places him more than two centuries later than the period at which

he really lived. (Lady Ferguson's "The Irish before the Conquest," pp.

57, 58.)

33. For a description of this mysterious instrument, see Dr. Todd's

"Additional Notes to the Irish version of Nennius," p. 12.

34. On the use of mail armour by the ancient Irish, see Dr. O'Donovan's

"Introduction and Notes to the Battle of Magh-Rath," edited for the

Archaeological Society.

35. For an interesting account of this sovereign, so famous in Irish

story, see O'Curry's "Lectures," pp. 33, 34. Her Father, according to

the chronology of the "Four Masters," is supposed to have reigned as

monarch of Erin about a century before the Christian era. "Of all the

children of the monarch Eochaidh Fiedloch," says O'Donovan (cited in

O'Mahony's translation of Keating's "History," p. 276) "by far the most

celebrated was Meadbh or Mab, who is still remembered as the fairy queen

of the Irish, the 'Queen Mab' of Spenser."

36. "The belief that a 'ferb' or ulcer could be produced," says Mr.

Stokes, in his preface to 'Cormac's Glossary,' "forms the groundwork of

the tale of Nede mac Adnae and his uncle, Caier." The names of the

three blisters (Stain, Blemish, and Defect) are almost identical with

those Ferdiah is threatened with in the present poem.

37. A 'cumal' was three cows, or their value. On the use of chariots,

see "The Sick Bed of Cuchullin," Atlantis, i., p. 375.

38. "The plains of Aie" (son of Allghuba the Druid), in Roscommon.

Here stood the palace of Cruachain (O'Curry's "Lectures," p. 35; "Battle

of Magh Leana," p. 61).

39. "Fair-brow" (O'Curry, "Exile of the Children of Uisnech," Atlantis,

ii., p. 386).

40. Here in the original there is a sudden change from prose to verse.

"It is generally supposed that these stories were recited by the ancient

Irish poets for the amusement of their chieftains at their public

feasts, and that the portions given in metre were sung" ("Battle of Magh

Rath," p. 12). The prose portions of this tale are represented in the

translation by blank verse, and the lyrical portions by rhymed verse.

41. "Ugaine Mor exacted oaths by the sun and moon, the sea, the dew,

and colours . . . that the sovereignty of Erin should be invested in his

descendants for ever" (Ib. p. 3).

42. The high dignity of Domnal may be inferred from the following

lines, quoted from MacLenini, in the preface to "Cormac's Glossary,"

p. 51:--

"As blackbirds to swans, as an ounce to a mass of gold,

As the forms of peasant women to the forms of queens,

As a king to Domnal . . .

As a taper to a candle, so is a sword to my sword."

43. She was the wife of Ned, the war-god. See O'Donovan's "Annals of

the Four Masters," vol. i., p. 24.

44. Etan is said to have been 'muime na filed,' nurse of the poets

("Three Irish Glossaries," preface, p. 33).

45. At Rathcroghan was the palace of the Kings of Connacht.

46. A name of Ireland ("Battle of Magh Leana," p. 79).

47. So the night before the battle of Magh Rath, "the monarch, grandson

of Ainmire, slept not, in consequence of the weight of the battle and

the anxiety of the conflict pressing on his mind; for he was certain

that his own beloved foster-son would, on the morrow, meet his last

fate."

48. In the "Battle of Magh Leana" these mysterious beings are called

"the Women of the Valley" (p. 120).

49. For this line and for many valuable suggestions throughout the poem

I am indebted to the deep poetical insight and correct judgment of my

friend, Aubrey de Vere.

50. "Derg Dian Scothach saw this order, and he put his forefinger into

the string of the spear." "Fate of the Children of Tuireann," by

O'Curry, Atlantis, iv., p. 233. See also "Battle of Magh Rath," pp.

140, 141, 152.

51. Bregia was the ancient name of the plain watered by the Boyne.

52. According to the marginal note of the learned editor, the last four

lines appear to be a sort of epilogue, in which the poet extols the

victor.

THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN.

A.D. 545.

[We are informed that Brendan, hearing of the previous voyage of his

cousin, Barinthus, in the western ocean, and obtaining an account from

him of the happy isles he had landed on in the far west, determined,

under the strong desire of winning heathen souls to Christ, to undertake

a voyage of discovery himself. And aware that all along the western

coast of Ireland there were many traditions respecting the existence of

a western land, he proceeded to the islands of Arran, and there remained

for some time, holding communication with the venerable St. Enda, and

obtaining from him much information relating to his voyage. Having

prosecuted his inquiries with diligence, Brendan returned to his native

Kerry; and from a bay sheltered by the lofty mountain that is now known

by his name, he set sail for the Atlantic land; and, directing his

course towards the south-west, in order to meet the summer solstice, or

what we should call the tropic, after a long and rough voyage, his

little bark being well provisioned, he came to summer seas, where he was

carried along, without the aid of sail or oar, for many a long day.

This, which it is to be presumed was the great gulf-stream, brought his

vessel to shore somewhere about the Virginian capes, or where the

American coast tends eastward, and forms the New England States. Here

landing, he and his companions marched steadily into the interior for

fifteen days, and then came to a large river, flowing from east to west:

this, evidently, was the river Ohio. And this the holy adventurer was

about to cross, when he was accosted by a person of noble presence--but

whether a real or visionary man does not appear--who told him he had

gone far enough; that further discoveries were reserved for other men,

who would, in due time, come and Christianise all that pleasant land.

It is said he remained seven years away, and returned to set up a

college of three thousand monks, at Clonfert.--"Caesar Otway's Sketches

in Erris and Tyrawley," note, pp. 98, 99.]

THE VOCATION.

[When St. Brendan was an infant, says Colgan, he was placed under the

care of St. Ita, and remained with her five years, after which period he

was led away by Bishop Ercus in order to receive from him the more solid

instruction necessary for his advancing years. Brendan always retained

the greatest respect and affection for his foster-mother, and he is

represented, after his seven years' voyage, amusing St. Ita with an

account of his adventures in the ocean.]

O Ita, mother of my heart and mind--

My nourisher, my fosterer, my friend,

Who taught me first to God's great will resigned,

Before his shining altar-steps to bend;

Who poured his word upon my soul like balm,

And on mine eyes what pious fancy paints--

And on mine ear the sweetly swelling psalm,

And all the sacred knowledge of the saints;

To whom but thee, dear mother, should be told

Of all the wonders I have seen afar?--

Islands more green and suns of brighter gold

Than this dear land or yonder blazing star;

Of hills that bear the fruit-trees on their tops,

And seas that dimple with eternal smiles;

Of airs from heaven that fan the golden crops,

O'er the great ocean 'mid the blessed isles!

Thou knowest, O my mother! how to thee

The blessed Ercus led me when a boy,

And how within thine arms and at thine knee,

I learned the lore that death cannot destroy;

And how I parted hence with bitter tears,

And felt, when turning from thy friendly door,

In the reality of ripening years,

My paradise of childhood was no more.

I wept--but not with sin such tear-drops flow;--

I sighed--for earthly things with heaven entwine;

Tears make the harvest of the heart to grow,

And love though human is almost divine.

The heart that loves not knows not how to pray;

The eye can never smile that never weeps:

'Tis through our sighs hope's kindling sunbeams play

And through our tears the bow of promise peeps.

I grew to manhood by the western wave,

Among the mighty mountains on the shore:

My bed the rock within some natural cave,

My food whate'er the seas or seasons bore:

My occupation, morn and noon and night:

The only dream my hasty slumbers gave,

Was Time's unheeding, unreturning flight,

And the great world that lies beyond the grave.

And thus, where'er I went, all things to me

Assumed the one deep colour of my mind;

Great nature's prayer rose from the murmuring sea,

And sinful man sighed in the wintry wind.

The thick-veiled clouds by shedding many a tear,

Like penitents, grew purified and bright,

And, bravely struggling through earth's atmosphere,

Passed to the regions of eternal light.

I loved to watch the clouds now dark and dun,

In long procession and funeral line,

Pass with slow pace across the glorious sun,

Like hooded monks before a dazzling shrine.

And now with gentler beauty as they rolled

Along the azure vault in gladsome May,

Gleaming pure white, and edged with broidered gold,

Like snowy vestments on the Virgin's day.

And then I saw the mighty sea expand

Like Time's unmeasured and unfathomed waves,

One with its tide-marks on the ridgy sand,

The other with its line of weedy graves;

And as beyond the outstretched wave of time,

The eye of Faith a brighter land may meet,

So did I dream of some more sunny clime

Beyond the waste of waters at my feet.

Some clime where man, unknowing and unknown,

For God's refreshing word still gasps and faints;

Or happier rather some Elysian zone,

Made for the habitation of his saints:

Where Nature's love the sweat of labour spares,

Nor turns to usury the wealth it lends,

Where the rich soil spontaneous harvest bears,

And the tall tree with milk-filled clusters bends.

The thought grew stronger with my growing days,

Even like to manhood's strengthening mind and limb,

And often now amid the purple haze

That evening breathed upon the horizon's rim--

Methought, as there I sought my wished-for home,

I could descry amid the waters green,

Full many a diamond shrine and golden dome,

And crystal palaces of dazzling sheen.

And then I longed, with impotent desire,

Even for the bow whereby the Python bled,

That I might send on dart of the living fire

Into that land, before the vision fled,

And thus at length fix the enchanted shore,

Hy-Brasail, Eden of the western wave!

That thou again wouldst fade away no more,

Buried and lost within thy azure grave.

But angels came and whispered as I dreamt,

"This is no phantom of a frenzied brain--

God shows this land from time to time to tempt

Some daring mariner across the main:

By thee the mighty venture must be made,

By thee shall myriad souls to Christ be won!

Arise, depart, and trust to God for aid!"

I woke, and kneeling, cried, "His will be done!"

ARA OF THE SAINTS.[53]

Hearing how blessed Enda lived apart,

Amid the sacred caves of Ara-mhor,

And how beneath his eye, spread like a chart,

Lay all the isles of that remotest shore;

And how he had collected in his mind

All that was known to man of the Old Sea,[54]

I left the Hill of Miracles[55] behind,

And sailed from out the shallow, sandy Leigh.

Betwixt the Samphire Isles swam my light skiff,

And like an arrow flew through Fenor Sound,

Swept by the pleasant strand, and the tall cliff,

Whereon the pale rose amethysts are found.

Rounded Moyferta's rocky point, and crossed

The mouth of stream-streaked Erin's mightiest tide,

Whose troubled waves break o'er the City lost,

Chafed by the marble turrets that they hide.

Beneath Ibrickan's hills, moory and tame,

And Inniscaorach's caves, so wild and dark,

I sailed along. The white-faced otter came,

And gazed in wonder on my floating bark.

The soaring gannet, perched upon my mast,

And the proud bird, that flies but o'er the sea,

Wheeled o'er my head: and the girrinna passed

Upon the branch of some life-giving tree.[56]

Leaving the awful cliffs of Corcomroe,

I sought the rocky eastern isle, that bears

The name of blessed Coemhan, who doth show

Pity unto the storm-tossed seaman's prayers;

Then crossing Bealach-na-fearbach's treacherous sound,

I reached the middle isle, whose citadel

Looks like a monarch from its throne around;

And there I rested by St. Kennerg's well.

Again I sailed, and crossed the stormy sound

That lies beneath Binn-Aite's rocky height--

And there, upon the shore, the Saint I found

Waiting my coming though the tardy night.

He led me to his home beside the wave,

Where, with his monks, the pious father dwelled,

And to my listening ear he freely gave

The sacred knowledge that his bosom held.

When I proclaimed the project that I nursed,

How 'twas for this that I his blessing sought,

An irrepressible cry of joy outburst

From his pure lips, that blessed me for the thought.

He said that he, too, had in visions strayed

Over the untracked ocean's billowy foam;

Bid me have hope, that God would give me aid,

And bring me safe back to my native home.

Oft, as we paced that marble-covered land,

Would blessed Enda tell me wondrous tales--

How, for the children of his love, the hand

Of the Omnipotent Father never fails--

How his own sister,[57] standing by the side

Of the great sea, which bore no human bark,

Spread her light cloak upon the conscious tide,

And sailed thereon securely as an ark.

And how the winds become the willing slaves

Of those who labour in the work of God;

And how Scothinus walked upon the waves,

Which seemed to him the meadow's verdant sod.

How he himself came hither with his flock,

To teach the infidels from Corcomroe,

Upon the floating breast of the hard rock,

Which lay upon the glistening sands below.

But not alone of miracles and joys

Would Enda speak--he told me of his dream;

When blessed Kieran went to Clonmacnois,

To found the sacred churches by the stream--

How he did weep to see the angels flee

Away from Arran as a place accursed;

And men tear up the island-shading tree,

Out of the soil from which it sprung at first.

At length I tore me from the good man's sight,

And o'er Loch Lurgan's mouth[58] took my lone way,

Which, in the sunny morning's golden light,

Shone like the burning lake of Lassarae;

Now 'neath heaven's frown--and now, beneath its smile--

Borne on the tide, or driven before the gale;

And, as I passed MacDara's sacred Isle,

Thrice bowed my mast, and thrice let down my sail.

Westward of Arran as I sailed away;

I saw the fairest sight eye can behold--

Rocks which, illumined by the morning's ray,

Seemed like a glorious city built of gold.

Men moved along each sunny shining street,

Fires seemed to blaze, and curling smoke to rise,

When lo! the city vanished, and a fleet,

With snowy sails, rose on my ravished eyes.

Thus having sought for knowledge and for strength,

For the unheard-of voyage that I planned,

I left these myriad isles, and turned at length

Southward my bark, and sought my native land.

There made I all things ready, day by day,

The wicker-boat, with ox-skins covered o'er--

Chose the good monks companions of my way,

And waited for the wind to leave the shore.

THE VOYAGE.

At length the long-expected morning came,

When from the opening arms of that wild bay,

Beneath the hill that bears my humble name,

Over the waves we took our untracked way;

Sweetly the morning lay on tarn and rill,

Gladly the waves played in its golden light,

And the proud top of the majestic hill

Shone in the azure air, serene and bright.

Over the sea we flew that sunny morn,

Not without natural tears and human sighs:

For who can leave the land where he was born,

And where, perchance, a buried mother lies;

Where all the friends of riper manhood dwell,

And where the playmates of his childhood sleep:

Who can depart, and breathe a cold farewell,

Nor let his eyes their honest tribute weep?

Our little bark, kissing the dimpled smiles

On ocean's cheek, flew like a wanton bird,

And then the land, with all its hundred isles,

Faded away, and yet we spoke no word.

Each silent tongue held converse with the past,

Each moistened eye looked round the circling wave,

And, save the spot where stood our trembling mast,

Saw all things hid within one mighty grave.

We were alone, on the wide watery waste--

Nought broke its bright monotony of blue,

Save where the breeze the flying billows chased,

Or where the clouds their purple shadows threw.

We were alone--the pilgrims of the sea--

One boundless azure desert round us spread;

No hope, no trust, no strength, except in THEE,

Father, who once the pilgrim-people led.

And when the bright-faced sun resigned his throne

Unto the Ethiop queen, who rules the night,

Who with her pearly crown and starry zone,

Fills the dark dome of heaven with silvery light;--

As on we sailed, beneath her milder sway,

And felt within our hearts her holier power,

We ceased from toil, and humbly knelt to pray,

And hailed with vesper hymns the tranquil hour!

For then, indeed, the vaulted heavens appeared

A fitting shrine to hear their Maker's praise,

Such as no human architect has reared,

Where gems, and gold, and precious marbles blaze.

What earthly temple such a roof can boast?--

What flickering lamp with the rich starlight vies,

When the round moon rests, like the sacred Host,

Upon the azure altar of the skies?

We breathed aloud the Christian's filial prayer,

Which makes us brothers even with the Lord;

Our Father, cried we, in the midnight air,

In heaven and earth be thy great name adored;

May thy bright kingdom, where the angels are,

Replace this fleeting world, so dark and dim.

And then, with eyes fixed on some glorious star,

We sang the Virgin-Mother's vesper hymn!

Hail, brightest star! that o'er life's troubled sea

Shines pitying down from heaven's elysian blue!

Mother and Maid, we fondly look to thee,

Fair gate of bliss, where heaven beams brightly through.

Star of the morning! guide our youthful days,

Shine on our infant steps in life's long race,

Star of the evening! with thy tranquil rays,

Gladden the aged eyes that seek thy face.

Hail, sacred Maid! thou brighter, better Eve,

Take from our eyes the blinding scales of sin;

Within our hearts no selfish poison leave,

For thou the heavenly antidote canst win.

O sacred Mother! 'tis to thee we run--

Poor children, from this world's oppressive strife;

Ask all we need from thy immortal Son,

Who drank of death, that we might taste of life.

Hail, spotless Virgin! mildest, meekest maid--

Hail! purest Pearl that time's great sea hath borne--

May our white souls, in purity arrayed,

Shine, as if they thy vestal robes had worn;

Make our hearts pure, as thou thyself art pure,

Make safe the rugged pathway of our lives,

And make us pass to joys that will endure

When the dark term of mortal life arrives.[59]

'Twas thus, in hymns, and prayers, and holy psalms,

Day tracking day, and night succeeding night,

Now driven by tempests, now delayed by calms,

Along the sea we winged our varied flight.

Oh! how we longed and pined for sight of land!

Oh! how we sighed for the green pleasant fields!

Compared with the cold waves, the barest strand--

The bleakest rock--a crop of comfort yields.

Sometimes, indeed, when the exhausted gale,

In search of rest, beneath the waves would flee,

Like some poor wretch who, when his strength doth fail,

Sinks in the smooth and unsupporting sea:

Then would the Brothers draw from memory's store

Some chapter of life's misery or bliss,

Some trial that some saintly spirit bore,

Or else some tale of passion, such as this:

THE BURIED CITY.

[The peasants who live near the mouth of the Shannon point to a part of

the river within the headlands over which the tides rush with

extraordinary rapidity and violence. They say it is the site of a lost

city, long buried beneath the waves.--See Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii. p.

436.]

Beside that giant stream that foams and swells

Betwixt Hy-Conaill and Moyarta's shore,

And guards the isle where good Senanus dwells,

A gentle maiden dwelt in days of yore.

She long has passed out of Time's aching womb,

And breathes Eternity's favonian air;

Yet fond Tradition lingers o'er her tomb,

And paints her glorious features as they were:--

Her smile was Eden's pure and stainless light,

Which never cloud nor earthly vapour mars;

Her lustrous eyes were like the noon of night--

Black, but yet brightened by a thousand stars;

Her tender form, moulded in modest grace,

Shrank from the gazer's eye, and moved apart;

Heaven shone reflected in her angel face,

And God reposed within her virgin heart.

She dwelt in green Moyarta's pleasant land,

Beneath the graceful hills of Clonderlaw,--

Sweet sunny hills, whose triple summits stand,

One vast tiara over stream and shaw.

Almost in solitude the maiden grew,

And reached her early budding woman's prime;

And all so noiselessly the swift time flew,

She knew not of the name or flight of Time.

And thus, within her modest mountain nest,

This gentle maiden nestled like a dove,

Offering to God from her pure innocent breast

The sweet and silent incense of her love.

No selfish feeling nor presumptuous pride

In her calm bosom waged unnatural strife;

Saint of her home and hearth, she sanctified

The thousand trivial common cares of life.

Upon the opposite shore there dwelt a youth,

Whose nature's woof was woven of good and ill--

Whose stream of life flowed to the sea of truth,

But in a devious course, round many a hill--

Now lingering through a valley of delight,

Where sweet flowers bloomed, and summer songbirds sung,

Now hurled along the dark, tempestuous night,

With gloomy, treeless mountains overhung.

He sought the soul of Beauty throughout space,

Knowledge he tracked through many a vanished age:

For one he scanned fair Nature's radiant face,

And for the other, Learning's shrivelled page.

If Beauty sent some fair apostle down,

Or Knowledge some great teacher of her lore,

Bearing the wreath of rapture and the crown,

He knelt to love, to learn, and to adore.

Full many a time he spread his little sail,

How rough the river, or how dark the skies,

Gave his light corrach to the angry gale,

And crossed the stream to gaze on Ethna's eyes.

As yet 'twas worship, more than human love,

That hopeless adoration that we pay

Unto some glorious planet throned above,

Through severed from its crystal sphere for aye.

But warmer love an easy conquest won,

The more he came to green Moyarta's bowers;

Even as the earth, by gazing on the sun,

In summer-time puts forth her myriad flowers.

The yearnings of his heart--vague, undefined--

Wakened and solaced by ideal gleams,

Took everlasting shape, and intertwined

Around this incarnation of his dreams.

Some strange fatality restrained his tongue--

He spoke not of the love that filled his breast;

The thread of hope, on which his whole life hung,

Was far too weak to bear so strong a test.

He trusted to the future--time, or chance--

His constant homage and assiduous care;

Preferred to dream, and lengthen out his trance,

Rather than wake to knowledge and despair.

And thus she knew not, when the youth would look

Upon some pictured chronicle of eld,

In every blazoned letter of the book

One fairest face was all that he beheld:

And where the limner, with consummate art,

Drew flowing lines and quaint devices rare,

The wildered youth, by looking from the heart,

Saw nought but lustrous eyes and waving hair.

He soon was startled from his dreams, for now--

'Twas said, obedient to a heavenly call--

His life of life would take the vestal vow,

In one short month, within a convent's wall.

He heard the tidings with a sickening fear,

But quickly had the sudden faintness flown,

And vowed, though heaven or hell should interfere,

Ethna--his Ethna--should be his alone!

He sought his boat, and snatched the feathery oar--

It was the first and brightest morn of May:

The white-winged clouds, that sought the northern shore,

Seemed but Love's guides, to point him out the way.

The great old river heaved its mighty heart,

And, with a solemn sigh, went calmly on;

As if of all his griefs it felt a part,

But know they should be borne, and so had gone.

Slowly his boat the languid breeze obeyed,

Although the stream that that light burden bore

Was like the level path the angels made,

Through the rough sea, to Arran's blessed shore;

And from the rosy clouds the light airs fanned,

And from the rich reflection that they gave,

Like good Scothinus, had he reached his hand,

He might have plucked a garland from the wave.

And now the noon in purple splendour blazed,

The gorgeous clouds in slow procession filed;

The youth leaned o'er with listless eyes and gazed

Down through the waves on which the blue heavens smiled:

What sudden fear his gasping breath doth drown!

What hidden wonder fires his startled eyes!

Down in the deep, full many a fathom down,

A great and glorious city buried lies.

Not like those villages with rude-built walls,

That raise their humble roofs round every coast,

But holding marble basilics and halls,

Such as imperial Rome herself might boast.

There was the palace and the poor man's home,

And upstart glitter and old-fashioned gloom,

The spacious porch, the nicely rounded dome,

The hero's column, and the martyr's tomb.

There was the cromleach with its circling stones;

There the green rath and the round narrow tower;

There was the prison whence the captive's groans

Had many a time moaned in the midnight hour.

Beneath the graceful arch the river flowed,

Around the walls the sparkling waters ran,

The golden chariot rolled along the road--

All, all was there except the face of man.

The wondering youth had neither thought nor word,

He felt alone the power and will to die;

His little bark seemed like an outstretched bird,

Floating along that city's azure sky.

It joyed that youth the battle's storm to brave,

And yet he would have perished with affright,

Had not the breeze, rippling the lucid wave,

Concealed the buried city from his sight.

He reached the shore; the rumour was too true--

Ethna--his Ethna--would be God's alone

In one brief month; for which the maid withdrew,

To seek for strength before his blessed throne.

Was it the fire that on his bosom preyed,

Or the temptation of the Fiend abhorred,

That made him vow to snatch the white-veiled maid

Even from the very altar of her Lord?

The first of June, that festival of flowers,

Came, like a goddess, o'er the meadows green!

And all the children of the spring-tide showers

Rose from their grassy beds to hail their Queen.

A song of joy, a paean of delight,

Rose from the myriad life in the tall grass,

When the young Dawn, fresh from the sleep of night,

Glanced at her blushing face in Ocean's glass.

Ethna awoke--a second--brighter dawn--

Her mother's fondling voice breathed in her ear;

Quick from her couch she started as a fawn

Bounds from the heather when her dam is near.

Each clasped the other in a long embrace--

Each know the other's heart did beat and bleed--

Each kissed the warm tears from the other's face,

And gave the consolation she did need.

Oh! bitterest sacrifice the heart can make--

That of a mother of her darling child--

That of a child, who, for her Saviour's sake,

Leaves the fond face that o'er her cradle smiled.

They who may think that God doth never need

So great, so sad a sacrifice as this,

While they take glory in their easier creed,

Will feel and own the sacrifice it is.

All is prepared--the sisters in the choir--

The mitred abbot on his crimson throne--

The waxen tapers, with their pallid fire

Poured o'er the sacred cup and altar-stone--

The upturned eyes, glistening with pious tears--

The censer's fragrant vapour floating o'er;

Now all is hushed, for, lo! the maid appears,

Entering with solemn step the sacred door.

She moved as moves the moon, radiant and pale,

Through the calm night, wrapped in a silvery cloud;

The jewels of her dress shone through her veil,

As shine the stars through their thin vaporous shroud;

The brighter jewels of her eyes were hid

Beneath their smooth white caskets arching o'er,

Which, by the trembling of each ivory lid,

Seemed conscious of the treasures that they bore.

She reached the narrow porch and the tall door,

Her trembling foot upon the sill was placed--

Her snowy veil swept the smooth-sanded floor--

Her cold hands chilled the bosom they embraced.

Who is this youth, whose forehead, like a book,

Bears many a deep-traced character of pain?

Who looks for pardon as the damned may look--

That ever pray, and know they pray in vain.

'Tis he, the wretched youth--the Demon's prey;

One sudden bound, and he is at her side--

One piercing shriek, and she has swooned away,

Dim are her eyes, and cold her heart's warm tide.

Horror and terror seize the startled crowd;

The sinewy hands are nerveless with affright;

When, as the wind beareth a summer cloud,

The youth bears off the maiden from their sight.

Close to the place the stream rushed roaring by,

His little boat lay moored beneath the bank,

Hid from the shore, and from the gazer's eye,

By waving reeds and water-willows dank.

Hither, with flying feet and glowing brow,

He fled, as quick as fancies in a dream--

Placed the insensate maiden in the prow--

Pushed from the shore, and gained the open stream.

Scarce had he left the river's foamy edge,

When sudden darkness fell on hill and plain;

The angry sun, shocked at the sacrilege,

Fled from the heavens with all his golden train;

The stream rushed quicker, like a man afeared;

Down swept the storm and clove its breast of green,

And though the calm and brightness reappeared

The youth and maiden never more were seen.

Whether the current in its strong arms bore

Their bark to green Hy-Brasail's fairy halls,

Or whether, as is told along that shore,

They sunk within the buried city's walls;

Whether through some Elysian clime they stray,

Or o'er their whitened bones the river rolls;--

Whate'er their fate, my brothers, let us pray

To God for peace and pardon to their souls.

Such was the brother's tale of earthly love--

He ceased, and sadly bowed his reverend head:

For us, we wept, and raised our eyes above,

And sang the 'De Profundis' for the dead.

A freshening breeze played on our moistened cheeks,

The far horizon oped its walls of light,

And lo! with purple hills and sun-bright peaks

A glorious isle gleamed on our gladdened sight,

THE PARADISE OF BIRDS.

"Post resurrectionis diem dominicae navigabitis ad altam insulam ad

occidentalem plagam, quae vocatur PARADISUS AVIUM."--"Life of St.

Brendan," in Capgrave, fol. 45.

It was the fairest and the sweetest scene--

The freshest, sunniest, smiling land that e'er

Held o'er the waves its arms of sheltering green

Unto the sea and storm-vexed mariner:--

No barren waste its gentle bosom scarred,

Nor suns that burn, nor breezes winged with ice,

Nor jagged rocks (Nature's grey ruins) marred

The perfect features of that Paradise.

The verdant turf spreads from the crystal marge

Of the clear stream, up the soft-swelling hill,

Rose-bearing shrubs and stately cedars large

All o'er the land the pleasant prospect fill.

Unnumbered birds their glorious colours fling

Among the boughs that rustle in the breeze,

As if the meadow-flowers had taken wing

And settled on the green o'er-arching trees.

Oh! Ita, Ita, 'tis a grievous wrong,

That man commits who uninspired presumes

To sing the heavenly sweetness of their song--

To paint the glorious tinting of their plumes--

Plumes bright as jewels that from diadems

Fling over golden thrones their diamond rays--

Bright, even as bright as those three mystic gems,

The angel bore thee in thy childhood's days.[60]

There dwells the bird that to the farther west

Bears the sweet message of the coming spring;[61]

June's blushing roses paint his prophet breast,

And summer skies gleam from his azure wing.

While winter prowls around the neighbouring seas,

The happy bird dwells in his cedar nest,

Then flies away, and leaves his favourite trees

Unto this brother of the graceful crest.[62]

Birds that with us are clothed in modest brown,

There wear a splendour words cannot express;

The sweet-voiced thrush beareth a golden crown,[63]

And even the sparrow boasts a scarlet dress.[64]

There partial nature fondles and illumes

The plainest offspring that her bosom bears;

The golden robin flies on fiery plumes,[65]

And the small wren a purple ruby wears.[66]

Birds, too, that even in our sunniest hours,

Ne'er to this cloudy land one moment stray,

Whose brilliant plumes, fleeting and fair as flowers,

Come with the flowers, and with the flowers decay.[67]

The Indian bird, with hundred eyes, that throws

From his blue neck the azure of the skies,

And his pale brother of the northern snows,

Bearing white plumes, mirrored with brilliant eyes.[68]

Oft in the sunny mornings have I seen

Bright-yellow birds, of a rich lemon hue,

Meeting in crowds upon the branches green,

And sweetly singing all the morning through.[69]

And others, with their heads greyish and dark,

Pressing their cinnamon cheeks to the old trees,

And striking on the hard, rough, shrivelled bark,

Like conscience on a bosom ill at ease.[70]

And diamond birds chirping their single notes,

Now 'mid the trumpet-flower's deep blossoms seen,

Now floating brightly on with fiery throats,

Small-winged emeralds of golden green;[71]

And other larger birds with orange cheeks,

A many-colour-painted chattering crowd,

Prattling for ever with their curved beaks,

And through the silent woods screaming aloud.[72]

Colour and form may be conveyed in words,

But words are weak to tell the heavenly strains

That from the throats of these celestial birds

Rang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains.

There was the meadow-lark, with voice as sweet,

But robed in richer raiment than our own;

And as the moon smiled on his green retreat,

The painted nightingale sang out alone.[73]

Words cannot echo music's winged note,

One bird alone exhausts their utmost power;

'Tis that strange bird whose many-voic'ed throat

Mocks all his brethren of the woodland bower;

To whom indeed the gift of tongues is given,

The musical rich tongues that fill the grove,

Now like the lark dropping his notes from heaven,

Now cooing the soft earth-notes of the dove.[74]

Oft have I seen him, scorning all control,

Winging his arrowy flight rapid and strong,

As if in search of his evanished soul,

Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song;

And as I wandered on, and upward gazed,

Half lost in admiration, half in fear,

I left the brothers wondering and amazed,

Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near.

Was it a revelation or a dream?--

That these bright birds as angels once did dwell

In heaven with starry Lucifer supreme,

Half sinned with him, and with him partly fell;

That in this lesser paradise they stray.

Float through its air, and glide its streams along,

And that the strains they sing each happy day

Rise up to God like morn and even song.[75]

THE PROMISED LAND.

[The earlier stanzas of this description of Paradise are principally

founded upon the Anglo-Saxon version of the poem "De Phenice," ascribed

to Lactantius, and which is at least as old as the earlier part of the

eleventh century.]

As on this world the young man turns his eyes,

When forced to try the dark sea of the grave,

Thus did we gaze upon that Paradise,

Fading, as we were borne across the wave.

And, as a brighter world dawns by degrees

Upon Eternity's serenest strand,

Thus, having passed through dark and gloomy seas,

At length we reached the long-sought Promised Land.

The wind had died upon the Ocean's breast,

When, like a silvery vein through the dark ore,

A smooth bright current, gliding to the west,

Bore our light bark to that enchanted shore.

It was a lovely plain--spacious and fair,

And bless'd with all delights that earth can hold,

Celestial odours filled the fragrant air

That breathed around that green and pleasant wold.

There may not rage of frost, nor snow, nor rain,

Injure the smallest and most delicate flower,

Nor fall of hail wound the fair, healthful plain,

Nor the warm weather, nor the winter's shower.

That noble land is all with blossoms flowered,

Shed by the summer breezes as they pass;

Less leaves than blossoms on the trees are showered,

And flowers grow thicker in the fields than grass.

Nor hills, nor mountains, there stand high and steep,

Nor stony cliffs tower o'er the frightened waves,

Nor hollow dells, where stagnant waters sleep,

Nor hilly risings, nor dark mountain caves;

Nothing deformed upon its bosom lies,

Nor on its level breast rests aught unsmooth,

But the noble filed flourishes 'neath the skies,

Blooming for ever in perpetual youth.

That glorious land stands higher o'er the sea,

By twelve-fold fathom measure, than we deem

The highest hills beneath the heavens to be.

There the bower glitters, and the green woods gleam.

All o'er that pleasant plain, calm and serene,

The fruits ne'er fall, but, hung by God's own hand,

Cling to the trees that stand for ever green,

Obedient to their Maker's first command.

Summer and winter are the woods the same,

Hung with bright fruits and leaves that never fade;

Such will they be, beyond the reach of flame,

Till Heaven, and Earth, and Time, shall have decayed.

Here might Iduna in her fond pursuit,

As fabled by the northern sea-born men,

Gather her golden and immortal fruit,

That brings their youth back to the gods again.

Of old, when God, to punish sinful pride,

Sent round the deluged world the ocean flood,

When all the earth lay 'neath the vengeful tide,

This glorious land above the waters stood.

Such shall it be at last, even as at first,

Until the coming of the final doom,

When the dark chambers--men's death homes shall burst,

And man shall rise to judgment from the tomb.

There there is never enmity, nor rage,

Nor poisoned calumny, nor envy's breath,

Nor shivering poverty, nor decrepit age,

Nor loss of vigour, nor the narrow death;

Nor idiot laughter, nor the tears men weep,

Nor painful exile from one's native soil,

Nor sin, nor pain, nor weariness, nor sleep,

Nor lust of riches, nor the poor man's toil.

There never falls the rain-cloud as with us,

Nor gapes the earth with the dry summer's thirst,

But liquid streams, wondrously curious,

Out of the ground with fresh fair bubbling burst.

Sea-cold and bright the pleasant waters glide

Over the soil, and through the shady bowers;

Flowers fling their coloured radiance o'er the tide,

And the bright streams their crystal o'er the flowers.

Such was the land for man's enjoyment made,

When from this troubled life his soul doth wend:

Such was the land through which entranced we strayed,

For fifteen days, nor reached its bound nor end.

Onward we wandered in a blissful dream,

Nor thought of food, nor needed earthly rest;

Until, at length, we reached a mighty stream,

Whose broad bright waves flowed from the east to west.

We were about to cross its placid tide,

When, lo! an angel on our vision broke,

Clothed in white, upon the further side

He stood majestic, and thus sweetly spoke:

"Father, return, thy mission now is o'er;

God, who did call thee here, now bids thee go,

Return in peace unto thy native shore,

And tell the mighty secrets thou dost know.

"In after years, in God's own fitting time,

This pleasant land again shall re-appear;

And other men shall preach the truths sublime,

To the benighted people dwelling here.

But ere that hour this land shall all be made,

For mortal man, a fitting, natural home,

Then shall the giant mountain fling its shade,

And the strong rock stem the white torrent's foam.

"Seek thy own isle--Christ's newly-bought domain,

Which Nature with an emerald pencil paints:

Such as it is, long, long shall it remain,

The school of Truth, the College of the Saints,

The student's bower, the hermit's calm retreat,

The stranger's home, the hospitable hearth,

The shrine to which shall wander pilgrim feet

From all the neighbouring nations of the earth.

"But in the end upon that land shall fall

A bitter scourge, a lasting flood of tears,

When ruthless tyranny shall level all

The pious trophies of its early years:

Then shall this land prove thy poor country's friend,

And shine a second Eden in the west;

Then shall this shore its friendly arms extend,

And clasp the outcast exile to its breast."

He ceased and vanished from our dazzled sight,

While harps and sacred hymns rang sweetly o'er

For us again we winged our homeward flight

O'er the great ocean to our native shore;

And as a proof of God's protecting hand,

And of the wondrous tidings that we bear,

The fragrant perfume of that heavenly land

Clings to the very garments that we wear.[76]

53. So called from the number of holy men and women formerly inhabiting

it.

54. The Atlantic was so named by the ancient Irish.

55. Ardfert.

56. The puffin (Anas leucopsis), called in Irish 'girrinna.' It was

the popular belief that these birds grew out of driftwood.

57. St. Fanchea.

58. Galway Bay.

59. These stanzas are a paraphrase of the hymn "Ave Maris Stella."

60. An angel was said to have presented her with three precious stones,

which, he explained, were emblematic of the Blessed Trinity, by whom she

would be always visited and protected.

61. The blue bird.

62. The cedar bird.

63. The golden-crowned thrush.

64. The scarlet sparrow or tanager.

65. The Baltimore oriole or fire-bird.

66. The ruby-crowned wren.

67. Peacocks.

68. The white peacock.

69. The yellow bird or goldfinch.

70. The gold-winged woodpecker.

71. Humming birds.

72. The Carolina parrot.

73. The grosbeak or red bird, sometimes called the Virginia

nightingale.

74. The mocking-bird.

75. See the "Lyfe of Saynt Brandon" in the Golden Legend, published by

Wynkyn de Worde, 1483; fol. 357.

76. "Nonne cognoscitis in odore vestimentorum nostrorum quod in

Paradiso Domini fuimus."--Colgan.

THE FORAY OF CON O'DONNELL.

A.D. 1495.

[Con, the son of Hugh Roe O'Donnell, with his small-powerful force,--and

the reason Con's force was called the small-powerful force was, because

he was always in the habit of mustering a force which did not exceed

twelve score of well-equipped and experienced battle-axe-men, and sixty

chosen active horsemen, fit for battle,--marched with the forementioned

force to the residence of MacJohn of the Glynnes (in the county of

Antrim); for Con had been informed that MacJohn had in possession the

finest woman, steed, and hound, of any other person in his

neighbourhood. He sent a messenger for the steed before that time, and

was refused, although Con had, at the same time, promised it to one of

his own people. Con did not delay, and got over every difficult pass

with his small-powerful force, without battle or obstruction, until he

arrived in the night at the house of MacJohn, whom he, in the first

place, took prisoner, and his wife, steed, and hound, and all his

property, were under Con's control, for he found the same steed, with

sixteen others, in the town on that occasion. All the Glynnes were

plundered on the following day by Con's people, but he afterwards,

however, made perfect restitution of all property, to whomsoever it

belonged, to MacJohn's wife, and he set her husband free to her after he

had passed the Bann westward. He brought with him the steed and great

booty and spoils, into Tirhugh, and ordered the cattle-prey to be let

out on the pasturage.--"Annals of the Four Masters," translated by Owen

Connellan, Esq., p. 331-2. This poem, founded upon the foregoing

passage (and in which the hero acts with more generosity than the Annals

warrant) was written and published in the Dublin University Magazine

before the appearance of Mr. O'Donovan's "Annals of the Kingdom of

Ireland,"--the magnificent work published in 1848 by Messrs. Hodges and

Smith, of this city. For Mr. O'Donovan's version of this passage, which

differs from that of the former translator in two or three important

particulars, see the second volume of his work, p. 1219. The principal

castle of the O'Donnell's was at Donegal. The building, of which some

portions still exist, was erected in the twelfth century. The

banqueting-hall, which is the scene of the opening portion of this

ballad, is still preserved, and commands some beautiful views.]

The evening shadows sweetly fall

Along the hills of Donegal,

Sweetly the rising moonbeams play

Along the shores of Inver Bay,[77]

As smooth and white Lough Eask[78] expands

As Rosapenna's[79] silvery sands,

And quiet reigns all o'er thy fields,

Clan Dalaigh[80] of the golden shields.

The fairy gun[81] is heard no more

To boom within the cavern'd shore,

With smoother roll the torrents flow

Adown the rocks of Assaroe;[82]

Securely, till the coming day,

The red deer couch in far Glenvay,

And all is peace and calm around

O'Donnell's castled moat and mound.

But in the hall there feast to-night

Full many a kern and many a knight,

And gentle dames, and clansmen strong,

And wandering bards, with store of song:

The board is piled with smoking kine,

And smooth bright cups of Spanish wine,

And fish and fowl from stream and shaw,

And fragrant mead and usquebaugh.

The chief is at the table's head--

'Tis Con, the son of Hugh the Red--

The heir of Conal Golban's line;[83]

With pleasure flushed, with pride and wine,

He cries, "Our dames adjudge it wrong,

To end our feast without the song;

Have we no bard the strain to raise?

No foe to taunt, no maid to praise?

"Where beauty dwells the bard should dwell,

What sweet lips speak the bard should tell;

'Tis he should look for starry eyes,

And tell love's watchers where they rise:

To-night, if lips and eyes could do,

Bards were not wanting in Tirhugh;

For where have lips a rosier light,

And where are eyes more starry bright?"

Then young hearts beat along the board,

To praise the maid that each adored,

And lips as young would fain disclose

The love within; but one arose,

Gray as the rocks beside the main,--

Gray as the mist upon the plain,--

A thoughtful, wandering, minstrel man,

And thus the aged bard began:--

"O Con, benevolent hand of peace!

O tower of valour firm and true!

Like mountain fawns, like snowy fleece,

Move the sweet maidens of Tirhugh.

Yet though through all thy realm I've strayed,

Where green hills rise and white waves fall,

I have not seen so fair a maid

As once I saw by Cushendall.[84]

"O Con, thou hospitable Prince!

Thou, of the open heart and hand,

Full oft I've seen the crimson tints

Of evening on the western land.

I've wandered north, I've wandered south,

Throughout Tirhugh in hut and hall,

But never saw so sweet a mouth

As whispered love by Cushendall.

"O Con, munificent gifts!

I've seen the full round harvest moon

Gleam through the shadowy autumn drifts

Upon thy royal rock of Doune.[85]

I've seen the stars that glittering lie

O'er all the night's dark mourning pall,

But never saw so bright an eye

As lit the glens of Cushendall.

"I've wandered with a pleasant toil,

And still I wander in my dreams;

Even from the white-stoned beach, Loch Foyle,

To Desmond of the flowing streams.

I've crossed the fair green plains of Meath,

To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall;

But never saw such pearly teeth,

As her's that smiled by Cushendall.

"O Con! thou'rt rich in yellow gold,

Thy fields are filled with lowing kine,

Within they castles wealth untold,

Within thy harbours fleets of wine;

But yield not, Con, to worldly pride

Thou may'st be rich, but hast not all;

Far richer he who for his bride

Has won fair Anne of Cushendall.

"She leans upon a husband's arm,

Surrounded by a valiant clan,

In Antrim's Glynnes, by fair Glenarm,

Beyond the pearly-paven Bann;

'Mid hazel woods no stately tree

Looks up to heaven more graceful-tall,

When summer clothes its boughs, than she,

MacDonnell's wife of Cushendall!"

The bard retires amid the throng,

No sweet applause rewards his song,

No friendly lip that guerdon breathes,

To bard more sweet than golden wreaths.

It might have been the minstrel's art

Had lost the power to move the heart,

It might have been his harp had grown

Too old to yield its wonted tone.

But no, if hearts were cold and hard,

'Twas not the fault of harp or bard;

It was no false or broken sound

That failed to move the clansmen round.

Not these the men, nor these the times,

To nicely weigh the worth of rhymes;

'Twas what he said that made them chill,

And not his singing well or ill.

Already had the stranger band

Of Saxons swept the weakened land,

Already on the neighbouring hills

They named anew a thousand rills,

"Our fairest castles," pondered Con,

"Already to the foe are gone,

Our noblest forests feed the flame,

And now we lose our fairest dame."

But though his cheek was white with rage,

He seemed to smile, and cried--"O Sage!

O honey-spoken bard of truth!

MacDonnell is a valiant youth.

We long have been the Saxon's prey--

Why not the Scot as well as they?

He's of as good a robber line

As any a Burke or Geraldine.

"From Insi Gall,[86] so speaketh fame,

From Insi Gall his people came;

From Insi Gall, where storm winds roar

Beyond the gray Albin's icy shore.

His grandsire and his grandsire's son,

Full soon fat herds and pastures won;

But, by Columba! were we men,

We'd send the whole brood back again!

"Oh! had we iron hands to dare,

As we have waxen hearts to bear,

Oh! had we manly blood to shed,

Or even to tinge our cheeks with red,

No bard could say as you have said,

One of the race of Somerled--

A base intruder from the Isles--

Basks in our island's sunniest smiles!

"But, not to mar our feast to-night

With what to-morrow's sword may right,

O Bard of many songs! again

Awake thy sweet harp's silvery strain.

If beauty decks with peerless charm

MacDonnell's wife in fair Glenarm,

Say does there bound in Antrim's meads

A steed to match O'Donnell's steeds?"

Submissive doth the bard incline

His reverend head, and cries, "O Con,

Thou heir of Conal Golban's line,

I've sang the fair wife of MacJohn;

You'll frown again as late you frowned,

But truth will out when lips are freed;

There's not a steed on Irish ground

To stand beside MacDonnell's steed!

"Thy horses o'er Eargals' plains,

Like meteors stars their red eyes gleam;

With silver hoofs and broidered reins,

They mount the hill and swim the stream;

But like the wind through Barnesmore,

Or white-maned wave through Carrig-Rede,[87]

Or like a sea-bird to the shore,

Thus swiftly sweeps MacDonnell's steed!

"A thousand graceful steeds had Fin,

Within lost Almhaim's fairy hall,

A thousand steeds as sleek of skin

As ever graced a chieftain's stall.

With gilded bridles oft they flew,

Young eagles in their lightning speed,

Strong as the cataract of Hugh,[88]

So swift and strong MacDonnell's steed!"

Without the hearty word of praise,

Without the kindly smiling gaze,

Without the friendly hand to greet,

The daring bard resumes his seat.

Even in the hospitable face

Of Con, the anger you could trace.

But generous Con his wrath suppressed,

For Owen was Clan Dalaigh's guest.

"Now, by Columba!" Con exclaimed,

"Methinks this Scot should be ashamed

To snatch at once, in sateless greed,

The fairest maid and finest steed;

My realm is dwindled in mine eyes,

I know not what to praise or prize,

And even my noble dog, O Bard,

Now seems unworthy my regard!"

"When comes the raven of the sea

To nestle on an alien strand,

Oh! ever, ever will he be

The master of the subject land.

The fairest dame, he holdeth her--

For him the noblest steed doth bound--;

Your dog is but a household cur,

Compared to John MacDonnell's hound!

"As fly the shadows o'er the grass,

He flies with step as light and sure,

He hunts the wolf through Trosstan pass,

And starts the deer by Lisanoure!

The music of the Sabbath bells,

O Con, has not a sweeter sound

Than when along the valley swells

The cry of John MacDonnell's hound.

"His stature tall, his body long,

His back like night, his breast like snow,

His fore-leg pillar-like and strong,

His hind-leg like a bended bow;

Rough, curling hair, head long and thin,

His ear a leaf so small and round:

Not Bran, the favourite hound of Fin,

Could rival John MacDonnell's hound.

"O Con! thy bard will sing no more,

There is a fearful time at hand;

The Scot is on the northern shore,

The Saxon in the eastern land;

The hour comes on with quicker flight,

When all who live on Irish ground

Must render to the stranger's might

Both maid and wife, and steed and hound!"

The trembling bard again retires,

But now he lights a thousand fires;

The pent-up flame bursts out at length,

In all its burning, tameless strength.

You'd think each clansman's foe was by,

So sternly flashed each angry eye;

You'd think 'twas in the battle's clang

O'Donnell's thundering accents rang!

"No! by my sainted kinsman,[89] no!

This foul disgrace must not be so;

No, by the Shrines of Hy, I've sworn,

This foulest wrong must not be borne.

A better steed!--a fairer wife!

Was ever truer cause of strife?

A swifter hound!--a better steed!

Columba! these are cause indeed!"

Again, like spray from mountain rill,

Up started Con: "By Collum Kille,

And by the blessed light of day,

This matter brooketh no delay.

The moon is down, the morn is up,

Come, kinsmen, drain a parting cup,

And swear to hold our next carouse,

With John MacJohn MacDonnell's spouse!

"We've heard the song the bard has sung,

And as a healing herb among

Most poisonous weeds may oft be found,

So of this woman, steed, and hound;

The song has burned into our hearts,

And yet a lesson it imparts,

Had we but sense to read aright

The galling words we heard to-night.

"What lesson does the good hound teach?

Oh, to be faithful each to each!

What lesson gives the noble steed?

Oh! to be swift in thought and deed!

What lesson gives the peerless wife?

Oh! there is victory after strife;

Sweet is the triumph, rich the spoil,

Pleasant the slumber after toil!"

They drain the cup, they leave the hall,

They seek the armoury and stall,

The shield re-echoing to the spear

Proclaims the foray far and near;

And soon around the castles gate

Full sixty steeds impatient wait,

And every steed a knight upon,

The strong, small-powerful force of Con!

Their lances in the red dawn flash,

As down by Easky's side they dash;

Their quilted jackets shine the more,

From gilded leather broidered o'er;

With silver spurs, and silken rein,

And costly riding-shoes from Spain;

Ah! much thou hast to fear, MacJohn,

The strong, small-powerful force of Con!

As borne upon autumnal gales,

Wild whirring gannets pierce the sails

Of barks that sweep by Arran's shore,[90]

Thus swept the train through Barnesmore.

Through many a varied scene they ran,

By Castle Fin, and fair Strabane,

By many a hill, and many a clan,

Across the Foyle and o'er the Bann:--

Then stopping in their eagle flight,

They waited for the coming night,

And then, as Antrim's rivers rush

Straight from their founts with sudden gush,

Nor turn their strong, brief streams aside,

Until the sea receives their tide;

Thus rushed upon the doomed MacJohn

The swift, small-powerful force of Con.

They took the castle by surprise,

No star was in the angry skies,

The moon lay dead within her shroud

Of thickly-folded ashen cloud;

They found the steed within his stall,

The hound within the oaken hall,

The peerless wife of thousand charms,

Within her slumbering husband's arms:

The bard had pictured to the life

The beauty of MacDonnell's wife;

Not Evir[91] could with her compare

For snowy hand and shining hair;

The glorious banner morn unfurls

Were dark beside her golden curls;

And yet the blackness of her eye

Was darker than the moonless sky!

If lovers listen to my lay,

Description is but thrown away;

If lovers read this antique tale,

What need I speak of red or pale?

The fairest form and brightest eye

Are simply those for which they sigh;

The truest picture is but faint

To what a lover's heart can paint.

Well, she was fair, and Con was bold,

But in the strange, wild days of old;

To one rough hand was oft decreed

The noblest and the blackest deed.

'Twas pride that spurred O'Donnell on,

But still a generous heart had Con;

He wished to show that he was strong,

And not to do a bootless wrong.

But now there's neither thought nor time

For generous act or bootless crime;

For other cares the thoughts demand

Of the small-powerful victor band.

They tramp along the old oak floors,

They burst the strong-bound chamber doors;

In all the pride of lawless power,

Some seek the vault, and some the tower.

And some from out the postern pass,

And find upon the dew-wet grass

Full many a head of dappled deer,

And many a full-ey'd brown-back'd steer,

And heifers of the fragrant skins,

The pride of Antrim's grassy glynns,

Which with their spears they drive along,

A numerous, startled, bellowing throng.

They leave the castle stripped and bare,

Each has his labour, each his share;

For some have cups, and some have plate,

And some have scarlet cloaks of state,

And some have wine, and some have ale,

And some have coats of iron mail,

And some have helms, and some have spears,

And all have lowing cows and steers!

Away! away! the morning breaks

O'er Antrim's hundred hills and lakes;

Away! away! the dawn begins

To gild gray Antrim's deepest glynns;

The rosy steeds of morning stop,

As if to gaze on Collin top;

Ere they have left it bare and gray,

O'Donnell must be far away!

The chieftain on a raven steed,

Himself the peerless dame doth lead,

Now like a pallid, icy corse,

And lifts her on her husband's horse;

His left hand holds his captive's rein,

His right is on the black steed's mane,

And from the bridle to the ground

Hangs the long leash that binds the hound.

And thus before his victor clan,

Rides Con O'Donnell in the van;

Upon his left the drooping dame,

Upon his right, in wrath and shame,

With one hand free and one hand tied,

And eyes firm fixed upon his bride,

Vowing dread vengeance yet on Con,

Rides scowling, silent, stern MacJohn.

They move with steps as swift as still,

'Twixt Collin mount and Slemish hill,

They glide along the misty plain,

And ford the sullen muttering Maine;

Some drive the cattle o'er the hills,

And some along the dried-up rills;

But still a strong force doth surround

The chiefs, the dame, the steed, and hound.

Thus ere the bright-faced day arose,

The Bann lay broad between the foes.

But how to paint the inward scorn,

The self-reproach of those that morn,

Who waking found their chieftain gone,

The cattle swept from field and bawn,

The chieftain's castle stormed and drained,

And, worse than all, their honour stained!

But when the women heard that Anne,

The queen, the glory of the clan

Was carried off by midnight foes,

Heavens! such despairing screams arose,

Such shrieks of agony and fright,

As only can be heard at night,

When Clough-i-Stookan's mystic rock

The wail of drowning men doth mock.[92]

But thirty steeds are in the town,

And some are like the ripe heath, brown,

Some like the alder-berries, black,

Some like the vessel's foamy track;

But be they black, or brown, or white,

They are as swift as fawns in flight,

No quicker speed the sea gull hath

When sailing through the Gray Man's Path.[93]

Soon are they saddled, soon they stand,

Ready to own the rider's hand,

Ready to dash with loosened rein

Up the steep hill, and o'er the plain;

Ready, without the prick of spurs,

To strike the gold cups from the furze:

And now they start with winged pace,

God speed them in their noble chase!

By this time, on Ben Bradagh's height,

Brave Con had rested in his flight,

Beneath him, in the horizon's blue,

Lay his own valleys of Tirhugh.

It may have been the thought of home,

While resting on that mossy dome,

It may have been his native trees

That woke his mind to thoughts like these.

"The race is o'er, the spoil is won,

And yet what boots it all I've done?

What boots it to have snatched away

This steed, and hound, and cattle-prey?

What boots it, with an iron hand

To tear a chieftain from his land,

And dim that sweetest light that lies

In a fond wife's adoring eyes?

"If thus I madly teach my clan,

What can I hope from beast or man?

Fidelity a crime is found,

Or else why chain this faithful hound?

Obedience, too, a crime must be,

Or else this steed were roaming free;

And woman's love the worst of sins,

Or Anne were queen of Antrim's Glynnes!

"If, when I reach my home to-night,

I see the yellow moonbeam's light

Gleam through the broken gate and wall

Of my strong fort of Donegal;

If I behold my kinsmen slain,

My barns devoid of golden grain,

How can I curse the pirate crew

For doing what this hour I do?

"Well, in Columba's blessed name,

This day shall be a day of fame,--

A day when Con in victory's hour

Gave up the untasted sweets of power;

Gave up the fairest dame on earth,

The noblest steed that e'er wore girth,

The noblest hound of Irish breed,

And all to do a generous deed."

He turned and loosed MacDonnell's hand,

And led him where his steed doth stand;

He placed the bride of peerless charms

Within his longing, outstretched arms;

He freed the hound from chain and band,

Which, leaping, licked his master's hand;

And thus, while wonder held the crowd,

The generous chieftain spoke aloud:--

"MacJohn, I heard in wrathful hour

That thou in Antrim's glynnes possessed

The fairest pearl, the sweetest flower

That ever bloomed on Erin's breast.

I burned to think such prize should fall

To any Scotch or Saxon man,

But find that Nature makes us all

The children of one world-spread clan.

"Within thy arms thou now dost hold

A treasure of more worth and cost

Than all the thrones and crowns of gold

That valour ever won or lost;

Thine is that outward perfect form,

Thine, too, the subtler inner life,

The love that doth that bright shape warm:

Take back, MacJohn, thy peerless wife!"

"They praised thy steed. With wrath and grief

I felt my heart within me bleed,

That any but an Irish chief

Should press the back of such a steed;

I might to yonder smiling land

The noble beast reluctant lead;

But, no!--he'd miss thy guiding hand--

Take back, MacJohn, thy noble steed.

"The praises of thy matchless hound,

Burned in my breast like acrid wine;

I swore no chief on Irish ground

Should own a nobler hound than mine;

'Twas rashly sworn, and must not be,

He'd pine to hear the well-known sound,

With which thou call'st him to thy knee,

Take back, MacJohn, thy matchless hound.

"MacJohn, I stretch to yours and you

This hand beneath God's blessed sun,

And for the wrong that I might do

Forgive the wrong that I have done;

To-morrow all that we have ta'en

Shall doubly, trebly be restored:

The cattle to the grassy plain,

The goblets to the oaken board.

"My people from our richest meads

Shall drive the best our broad lands hold

For every steed a hundred steeds,

For every steer a hundred-fold;

For every scarlet cloak of state

A hundred cloaks all stiff with gold;

And may we be with hearts elate

Still older friends as we grow old.

"Thou'st bravely won an Irish bride--

An Irish bride of grace and worth--

Oh! let the Irish nature glide

Into thy heart from this hour forth;

An Irish home thy sword has won,

A new-found mother blessed the strife;

Oh! be that mother's fondest son,

And love the land that gives you life!

"Betwixt the Isles and Antrim's coast,

The Scotch and Irish waters blend;

But who shall tell, with idle boast,

Where one begins and one doth end?

Ah! when shall that glad moment gleam,

When all our hearts such spell shall feel?

And blend in one broad Irish stream,

On Irish ground for Ireland's weal?

"Love the dear land in which you live,

Live in the land you ought to love;

Take root, and let your branches give

Fruits to the soil they wave above;

No matter what your foreign name,

No matter what your sires have done,

No matter whence or when you came,

The land shall claim you as a son!"

As in the azure fields on high,

When Spring lights up the April sky,

The thick battalioned dusky clouds

Fly o'er the plain like routed crowds

Before the sun's resistless might!

Where all was dark, now all is bright;

The very clouds have turned to light,

And with the conquering beams unite!

Thus o'er the face of John MacJohn

A thousand varying shades have gone;

Jealousy, anger, rage, disdain,

Sweep o'er his brow--a dusky train;

But nature, like the beam of spring,

Chaseth the crowd on sunny wing;

Joy warms his heart, hope lights his eye,

And the dark passions routed fly!

The hands are clasped--the hound is freed,

Gone is MacJohn with wife and steed,

He meets his spearsmen some few miles,

And turns their scowling frowns to smiles:

At morn the crowded march begins

Of steeds and cattle for the glynnes;

Well for poor Erin's wrongs and griefs,

If thus would join her severed chiefs!

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

78. Lough Eask is about two miles from Donegal. Inglis describes it as

being as pretty a lake, on a small scale, as can well be imagined.

79. The sands of Rosapenna are described as being composed of "hills

and dales, and undulating swells, smooth, solitary, and desolate,

reflecting the sun from their polished surface," &c.

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

Clan O'Donnell.

81. The "Fairy Gun" is an orifice in a cliff near Bundoran (four miles

S.W. of Ballyshannon), into which the sea rushes with a noise like that

of artillery, and from which mist, and a chanting sound, issue in stormy

weather.

82. The waterfall at Ballyshannon.

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

Nine Hostages.

84. Cushendall is very prettily situated on the eastern coast of the

county Antrim. This, with all the territory known as the "Glynnes" (so

called from the intersection of its surface by many rocky dells), from

Glenarm to Ballycastle, was at this time in the possession of the

MacDonnells, a clan of Scotch descent. The principal castle of the

MacDonnells was at Glenarm.

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

inaugurated.

86. The Hebrides.

87. Carrick-a-rede (Carraig-a-Ramhad)--the Rock in the Road lies off

the coast, between Ballycastle and Portrush; a chasm sixty feet in

breadth, and very deep, separates it from the coast.

88. The waterfall of Assaroe, at Ballyshannon.

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

90. "This bird (the Gannet) flys through the ship's sails, piercing

them with his beak."--O'Flaherty's "H-Iar Connaught," p. 12, published

by the Irish Archaeological Society.

91. She was the wife of Oisin, the bard, who is said to have lived and

sung for some time at Cushendall, and to have been buried at Donegal.

92. The Rock of Clough-i-Stookan lies on the shore between Glenarm and

Cushendall; it has some resemblance to a gigantic human figure.--"The

winds whistle through its crevices like the wailing of mariners in

distress."--Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii., p. 133.

93. "The Gray Man's Path" (Casan an fir Leith) is a deep and remarkable

chasm, dividing the promontory of Fairhead (or Benmore) in two.

THE BELL-FOUNDER.

PART I.--LABOUR AND HOPE.

In that land where the heaven-tinted pencil giveth shape to the

splendour of dreams,

Near Florence, the fairest of cities, and Arno, the sweetest of streams,

'Neath those hills[94] whence the race of the Geraldine wandered in ages

long since,

For ever to rule over Desmond and Erin as martyr and prince,

Lived Paolo, the young Campanaro,[95] the pride of his own little vale--

Hope changed the hot breath of his furnace as into a sea-wafted gale;

Peace, the child of Employment, was with him, with prattle so soothing

and sweet,

And Love, while revealing the future, strewed the sweet roses under his

feet.

Ah! little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills,

Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills.

Ah! little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased slumber enjoys,

Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that

destroys,

Nothing to hope for, or labour for; nothing to sigh for, or gain;

Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain;

Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with its breath:

Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, and death!

But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men,

Who, with hammer, or chisel, or pencil, with rudder, or ploughshare, or

pen,

Laboureth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life,

Winning home and its darling divinities--love-worshipped children and

wife,

Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the sharp chisel rings,

And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of

kings;

He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his race,

Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the strong world in the

face.

And such was young Paolo! The morning, ere yet the faint starlight had

gone,

To the loud-ringing workshop beheld him move joyfully light-footed on.

In the glare and the roar of the furnace he toiled till the evening star

burned,

And then back again through that valley, as glad but more weary

returned.

One moment at morning he lingers by that cottage that stands by the

stream,

Many moments at evening he tarries by that casement that woos the moon's

beam;

For the light of his life and his labours, like a lamp from that

casement shines

In the heart-lighted face that looks out from that purple-clad trellis

of vines.

Francesca! sweet, innocent maiden! 'tis not that thy young cheek is

fair,

Or thy sun-lighted eyes glance like stars through the curls of thy

wind-woven hair;

'Tis not for thy rich lips of coral, or even thy white breast of snow,

That my song shall recall thee, Francesca! but more for the good heart

below.

Goodness is beauty's best portion, a dower that no time can reduce,

A wand of enchantment and happiness, brightening and strengthening with

use.

One the long-sigh'd-for nectar that earthliness bitterly tinctures and

taints:

One the fading mirage of the fancy, and one the elysium it paints.

Long ago, when thy father would kiss thee, the tears in his old eyes

would start,

For thy face--like a dream of his boyhood--renewed the fresh youth of

his heart;

He is gone; but thy mother remaineth, and kneeleth each night-time and

morn,

And blesses the Mother of Blessings for the hour her Francesca was born.

There are proud stately dwellings in Florence, and mothers and maidens

are there,

And bright eyes as bright as Francesca's, and fair cheeks as brilliantly

fair;

And hearts, too, as warm and as innocent, there where the rich paintings

gleam,

But what proud mother blesses her daughter like the mother by Arno's

sweet stream?

It was not alone when that mother grew aged and feeble to hear,

That thy voice like the whisper of angels still fell on the old woman's

ear,

Or even that thy face, when the darkness of time overshadowed her sight,

Shone calm through the blank of her mind, like the moon in the midst of

the night.

But thine was the duty, Francesca, and the love-lightened labour was

thine,

To treasure the white-curling wool and the warm-flowing milk of the

kine,

And the fruits, and the clusters of purple, and the flock's tender

yearly increase,

That she might have rest in life's evening, and go to her Father in

peace.

Francesca and Paolo are plighted, and they wait but a few happy days,

Ere they walk forth together in trustfulness out on Life's wonderful

ways;

Ere, clasping the hands of each other, they move through the stillness

and noise,

Dividing the cares of existence, but doubling its hopes and its joys.

Sweet days of betrothment, which brighten so slowly to love's burning

noon,

Like the days of the spring which grow longer, the nearer the fulness of

June,

Though ye move to the noon and the summer of Love with a slow-moving

wing,

Ye are lit with the light of the morning, and decked with the blossoms

of spring.

The days of betrothment are over, for now when the evening star shines,

Two faces look joyfully out from that purple-clad trellis of vines;

The light-hearted laughter is doubled, two voices steal forth on the

air,

And blend in the light notes of song, or the sweet solemn cadence of

prayer.

At morning when Paolo departeth, 'tis out of that sweet cottage door,

At evening he comes to that casement, but passes that casement no more;

And the old feeble mother at night-time, when saying, "The Lord's will

be done,"

While blessing the name of a daughter, now blendeth the name of a son.