PART III.--VICISSITUDE AND REST.

O Erin! thou broad-spreading valley--thou well-watered land of fresh

streams,

When I gaze on thy hills greenly sloping, where the light of such

loveliness beams,

When I rest by the rim of thy fountains, or stray where thy streams

disembogue,

Then I think that the fairies have brought me to dwell in the bright

Tir-na-n-oge.[96]

But when on the face of thy children I look, and behold the big tears

Still stream down their grief-eaten channels, which widen and deepen

with years,

I fear that some dark blight for ever will fall on thy harvests of

peace,

And that, like thy lakes and thy rivers, thy sorrows must ever

increase.[97]

O land! which the heavens made for joy, but where wretchedness buildeth

its throne--

O prodigal spendthrift of sorrow! and hast thou not heirs of thine own?

Thus to lavish thy sons' only portion, and bring one sad claimant the

more,

From the sweet sunny lands of the south, to thy crowded and sorrowful

shore?

For this proud bark that cleaveth thy waters, she is not a corrach of

thine,

And the broad purple sails that spread o'er her seem dyed in the juice

of the vine.

Not thine is that flag, backward floating, nor the olive-cheek'd seamen

who guide,

Nor that heart-broken old man who gazes so listlessly over the tide.

Accurs'd be the monster, who selfishly draweth his sword from its

sheath;

Let his garland be twined by the furies, and the upas tree furnish the

wreath;

Let the blood he has shed steam around him, through the length of

eternity's years,

And the anguish-wrung screams of his victims for ever resound in his

ears.

For all that makes life worth possessing must yield to his self-seeking

lust:

He trampleth on home and on love, as his war-horses trample the dust;

He loosens the red streams of ruin, which wildly, though partially,

stray--

They but chafe round the rock-bastion'd castle, while they sweep the

frail cottage away.

Feuds fell like a plague upon Florence, and rage from without and

within;

Peace turned her mild eyes from the havoc, and Mercy grew deaf in the

din;

Fear strengthened the dove-wings of happiness, tremblingly borne on the

gale;

And the angel Security vanished, as the war-demon swept o'er the vale.

Is it for the Mass or the Angelus new that the bells ever ring?

Or is it the red trickling mist such a purple reflection doth fling?

Ah, no: 'tis the tocsin of terror that tolls from the desolate shrine;

And the down-trodden vineyards are flowing, but not with the blood of

the vine.

Deadly and dark was the tempest that swept o'er that vine-cover'd plain;

Burning and withering, its drops fell like fire on the grass and the

grain.

But the gloomiest moments must pass to their graves, as the brightest

and best,

And thus once again did fair Fiesole look o'er a valley of rest.

But, oh! in that brief hour of horror, that bloody eclipse of the sun,

What hopes and what dreams have been shattered?--what ruin and wrong

have been done?

What blossoms for ever have faded, that promised a harvest so fair;

And what joys are laid low in the dust that eternity cannot repair!

Look down on that valley of sorrows, whence the land-marks of joy are

removed,

Oh! where is the darling Francesca, so loving, so dearly beloved?--

And where are her children, whose voices rose music-winged once form

this spot?

And why are the sweet bells now silent? and where is the vine-cover'd

cot?

'Tis morning--no Mass-bell is tolling; 'tis noon, but no Angelus rings;

'Tis evening, but no drops of melody rain from her rose-coloured wings.

Ah! where have the angels, poor Paolo, that guarded thy cottage door

flown?

And why have they left thee to wander thus childless and joyless alone?

His children had grown into manhood, but, ah! in that terrible night

Which had fallen on fair Florence, they perished away in the thick of

the fight;

Heart-blinded, his darling Francesca went seeking her sons through the

gloom,

And found them at length, and lay down full of love by their side in the

tomb,

That cottage, its vine-cover'd porch and its myrtle-bound garden of

flowers,

That church whence the bells with their voices, drown'd the sound of the

fast-flying hours,

Both are levelled and laid in the dust, and the sweet-sounding bells

have been torn

From their downfallen beams, and away by the red hand of sacrilege

borne.

As the smith, in the dark, sullen smithy, striketh quick on the anvil

below,

Thus Fate on the heart of the old man struck rapidly blow after blow:

Wife, children, and hope passed away from the heart once so burning and

bold,

As the bright shining sparks disappear when the red glowing metal grows

cold.

He missed not the sound of his bells while those death-sounds struck

loud in the ears,

He missed not the church where they rang while his old eyes were blinded

with tears;

But the calmness of grief coming soon, in its sadness and silence

profound,

He listened once more as of old, but in vain, for the joy-bearing sound.

When he felt indeed they had vanished, one fancy then flashed on his

brain,

One wish made his heart beat anew with a throbbing it could not

restrain--

'Twas to wander away from fair Florence, its memory and dream-haunted

dells,

And to seek up and down through the earth for the sound of its magical

bells.

They will speak of the hopes that have perished, and the joys that have

faded so fast

With the music of memory wing`ed, they will seem but the voice of the

past;

As, when the bright morning has vanished, and evening grows starless and

dark,

The nightingale song of remembrance recalls the sweet strain of the

lark.

Thus restlessly wandering through Italy, now by the Adrian sea,

In the shrine of Loreto, he bendeth his travel-tired suppliant knee;

And now by the brown troubled Tiber he taketh his desolate way,

And in many a shady basilica lingers to listen and pray.

He prays for the dear ones snatched from him, nor vainly nor hopelessly

prays,

For the strong faith in union hereafter like a beam o'er his cold bosom

plays;

He listens at morning and evening, when matin and vesper bells toll,

But their sweetest sounds grate on his ear, and their music is harsh to

his soul.

For though sweet are the bells that ring out from the tall campanili of

Rome,

Ah! they are not the dearer and sweeter ones, tuned with the memory of

home.

So leaving proud Rome and fair Tivoli, southward the old man must stray,

'Till he reaches the Eden of waters that sparkle in Napoli's bay:

He sees not the blue waves of Baiae, nor Ischia's summits of brown,

He sees but the high campanili that rise o'er each far-gleaming town.

Driven restlessly onward, he saileth away to the bright land of Spain,

And seeketh thy shrine, Santiago, and stands by the western main.

A bark bound for Erin lay waiting, he entered like one in a dream;

Fair winds in the full purple sails led him soon to the Shannon's broad

stream.

'Twas an evening that Florence might envy, so rich was the lemon-hued

air,

As it lay on lone Scattery's island, or lit the green mountains of

Clare;

The wide-spreading old giant river rolled his waters as smooth and as

still

As if Oonagh, with all her bright nymphs, had come down from the far

fairy hill,[98]

To fling her enchantments around on the mountains, the air, and the

tide,

And to soothe the worn heart of the old man who looked from the dark

vessel's side.

Borne on the current the vessel glides smoothly but swiftly away,

By Carrigaholt, and by many a green sloping headland and bay,

'Twixt Cratloe's blue hills and green woods, and the soft sunny shores

of Tervoe,

And now the fair city of Limerick spreads out on the broad bank below;

Still nearer and nearer approaching, the mariners look o'er the town,

The old man sees nought but St. Mary's square tower, with its

battlements brown.

He listens--as yet all is silent, but now, with a sudden surprise,

A rich peal of melody rings from that tower through the clear evening

skies!

One note is enough--his eye moistens, his heart, long so wither'd,

outswells,

He has found them--the sons of his labours--his musical, magical bells!

At each stroke all the bright past returneth, around him the sweet Arno

shines,

His children--his darling Francesca--his purple-clad trellis of vines!

Leaning forward, he listens, he gazes, he hears in that wonderful strain

The long-silent voices that murmur, "Oh, leave us not, father again!"

'Tis granted--he smiles--his eye closes--the breath from his white lips

hath fled--

The father has gone to his children--the old Campanaro is dead!

94. The hills of Else. See Appendix to O'Daly's "History of the

Geraldines," translated by the Rev. C. P. Meehan, p. 130.

95. Bell-founder.

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

97. Camden seems to credit a tradition commonly believed in his time,

of a gradual increase in the number and size of the lakes and rivers of

Ireland.

98. The beautiful hill in Lower Ormond called "Knockshegowna," i.e.,

Oonagh's Hill, so called from being the fabled residence of Oonagh (or

Una), the Fairy Queen of Spenser. One of the finest views of the

Shannon is to be seen from this hill.

ALICE AND UNA.

A TALE OF CEIM-AN-EICH.[99]

Ah! the pleasant time hath vanished, ere our wretched doubtings

banished,

All the graceful spirit-people, children of the earth and sea,

Whom in days now dim and olden, when the world was fresh and golden,

Every mortal could behold in haunted rath, and tower, and tree--

They have vanished, they are banished--ah! how sad the loss for thee,

Lonely Ceim-an-eich!

Still some scenes are yet enchanted by the charms that Nature granted,

Still are peopled, still are haunted, by a graceful spirit band.

Peace and beauty have their dwelling where the infant streams are

welling,

Where the mournful waves are knelling on Glengariff's coral strand;

Or where, on Killarney's mountains, Grace and Terror smiling stand,

Like sisters, hand in hand!

Still we have a new romance in fire-ships through the tamed sea

glancing,

And the snorting and the prancing of the mighty engine steed;

Still, Astolpho-like, we wander through the boundless azure yonder,

Realizing what seemed fonder than the magic tales we read:

Tales of wild Arabian wonder, where the fancy all is freed--

Wilder far indeed!

Now that Earth once more hath woken, and the trance of Time is broken,

And the sweet word--Hope--is spoken, soft and sure, though none know

how,

Could we, could we only see all these, the glories of the Real,

Blended with the lost Ideal, happy were the old world now--

Woman in its fond believing--man with iron arm and brow--

Faith and work its vow!

Yes! the Past shines clear and pleasant, and there's glory in the

Present;

And the Future, like a crescent, lights the deepening sky of Time;

And that sky will yet grow brighter, if the Worker and the Writer--

If the Sceptre and the Mitre join in sacred bonds sublime.

With two glories shining o'er them, up the coming years they'll climb,

Earth's great evening as its prime!

With a sigh for what is fading, but, O Earth! with no upbraiding,

For we feel that time is braiding newer, fresher flowers for thee,

We will speak, despite our grieving, words of loving and believing,

Tales we vowed when we were leaving awful Ceim-an-eich,

Where the sever'd rocks resemble fragments of a frozen sea,

And the wild deer flee!

'Tis the hour when flowers are shrinking, when the weary sun is sinking,

And his thirsty steeds are drinking in the cooling western sea;

When young Maurice lightly goeth, where the tiny streamlet floweth

And the struggling moonlight showeth where his path must be--

Path whereon the wild goats wander fearlessly and free

Through dark Ceim-an-eich.

As a hunter, danger daring, with his dogs the brown moss sharing,

Little thinking, little caring, long a wayward youth lived he;

But his bounding heart was regal, and he looked as looks the eagle,

And he flew as flies the beagle, who the panting stag doth see:

Love, who spares a fellow-archer, long had let him wander free

Through wild Ceim-an-eich!

But at length the hour drew nigher when his heart should feel that fire;

Up the mountain high and higher had he hunted from the dawn;

Till the weeping fawn descended, where the earth and ocean blended,

And with hope its slow way wended to a little grassy lawn;

It is safe, for gentle Alice to her saving breast hath drawn

Her almost sister fawn.

Alice was a chieftain's daughter, and, though many suitors sought her,

She so loved Glengariff's water that she let her lovers pine;

Her eye was beauty's palace, and her cheek an ivory chalice,

Through which the blood of Alice gleamed soft as rosiest wine,

And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the fairies intertwine,[100]

And her heart a golden mine.

She was gentler and shyer than the light fawn that stood by her,

And her eyes emit a fire soft and tender as her soul;

Love's dewy light doth drown her, and the braided locks that crown her

Than autumn's trees are browner, when the golden shadows roll

Through the forests in the evening, when cathedral turrets toll,

And the purple sun advanceth to its goal.

Her cottage was a dwelling all regal homes excelling,

But, ah! beyond the telling was the beauty round it spread:

The wave and sunshine playing, like sisters each arraying,

Far down the sea-plants swaying upon their coral bed,

As languid as the tresses on a sleeping maiden's head,

When the summer breeze is dead.

Need we say that Maurice loved her, and that no blush reproved her

When her throbbing bosom moved her to give the heart she gave;

That by dawnlight and by twilight, and, O blessed moon! by thy light,

When the twinkling stars on high light the wanderer o'er the wave,

His steps unconscious led him where Glengariff's waters lave

Each mossy bank and cave.

He thitherward is wending, o'er the vale is night descending,

Quick his step, but quicker sending his herald thoughts before;

By rocks and streams before him, proud and hopeful on he bore him;

One star was shining o'er him--in his heart of hearts two more--

And two other eyes, far brighter than a human head e'er wore,

Unseen were shining o'er.

These eyes are not of woman, no brightness merely human

Could, planet-like, illumine the place in which they shone;

But Nature's bright works vary--there are beings light and airy,

Whom mortal lips call fairy, and Una she is one--

Sweet sisters of the moonbeams and daughters of the sun,

Who along the curling cool waves run.

As summer lightning dances amid the heavens' expanses,

Thus shone the burning glances of those flashing fairy eyes;

Three splendours there were shining, three passions intertwining,

Despair and hope combining their deep-contrasted dyes,

With jealousy's green lustre, as troubled ocean vies

With the blue of summer skies!

She was a fairy creature, of heavenly form and feature,

Not Venus' self could teach her a newer, sweeter grace,

Not Venus' self could lend her an eye so dark and tender,

Half softness and half splendour, as lit her lily face;

And as the choral planets move harmonious throughout space,

There was music in her pace.

But when at times she started, and her blushing lips were parted,

And a pearly lustre darted from her teeth so ivory white,

You'd think you saw the gliding of two rosy clouds dividing,

And the crescent they were hiding gleam forth upon your sight

Through these lips, as though the portals of a heaven pure and bright,

Came a breathing of delight!

Though many an elf-king loved her, and elf-dames grave reproved her,

The hunter's daring moved her more wildly every hour;

Unseen she roamed beside him, to guard him and to guide him,

But now she must divide him from her human rival's power.

Ah! Alice!--gentle Alice! the storm begins to lower

That may crush Glengariff's flower!

The moon, that late was gleaming, as calm as childhood's dreaming,

Is hid, and, wildly screaming, the stormy winds arise;

And the clouds flee quick and faster before their sullen master,

And the shadows of disaster are falling from the skies;

Strange sights and sounds are rising--but, Maurice, be thou wise,

Nor heed the tempting cries.

If ever mortal needed that council, surely he did;

But the wile has now succeeded--he wanders from his path;

The cloud its lightning sendeth, and its bolt the stout oak rendeth,

And the arbutus back bendeth in the whirlwind, as a lath!

Now and then the moon looks out, but, alas! its pale face hath

A dreadful look of wrath.

In vain his strength he squanders--at each step he wider wanders--

Now he pauses--now he ponders where his present path may lead;

And, as he round is gazing, he sees--a sight amazing--

Beneath him, calmly grazing, a noble jet-black steed.

"Now, heaven be praised!" cried Maurice, "for this succour in my need--

From this labyrinth I'm freed!"

Upon its back he leapeth, but a shudder through him creepeth,

As the mighty monster sweepeth like a torrent through the dell;

His mane, so softly flowing, is now a meteor blowing,

And his burning eyes are glowing with the light of an inward hell;

And the red breath of his nostrils, like steam where the lightning fell;

And his hoofs have a thunder knell!

What words have we for painting the momentary fainting

That the rider's heart is tainting, as decay doth taint a corse?

But who will stoop to chiding, in a fancied courage priding,

When we know that he is riding the fearful Phooka Horse?[101]

Ah! his heart beats quick and faster than the smitings of remorse

As he sweepeth through the wild grass and gorse!

As the avalanche comes crashing, 'mid the scattered streamlets

splashing,

Thus backward wildly dashing flew the horse through Ceim-an-eich--

Through that glen so wide and narrow back he darted like an arrow--

Round, round by Gougane Barra, and the fountains of the Lee;

O'er the Giant's Grave he leapeth, and he seems to own in fee

The mountains, and the rivers, and the sea!

From his flashing hoofs who shall lock the eagle homes of Malloc,

When he bounds, as bounds the Mialloch[102] in its wild and murmuring

tide?

But as winter leadeth Flora, or the night leads on Aurora,

Or as shines green Glashenglora[103] along the black hill's side,

Thus, beside that demon monster, white and gentle as a bride,

A tender fawn is seen to glide.

It is the fawn that fled him, and that late to Alice led him,

But now it does not dread him, as it feigned to do before,

When down the mountain gliding, in that sheltered meadow hiding,

It left his heart abiding by wild Glengariff's shore:

For it was a gentle fairy who the fawn's light form thus wore,

And who watched sweet Alice o'er.

But the steed is backward prancing where late it was advancing,

And his flashing eyes are glancing, like the sun upon Lough Foyle;

The hardest granite crushing, through the thickest brambles brushing,

Now like a shadow rushing up the sides of Slieve-na-goil!

And the fawn beside him gliding o'er the rough and broken soil,

Without fear and without toil.

Through woods, the sweet birds' leaf home, he rusheth to the sea foam,

Long, long the fairies' chief home, when the summer nights are cool,

And the blue sea, like a syren, with its waves the steed environ,

Which hiss like furnace iron when plunged within a pool,

Then along among the islands where the water nymphs bear rule,

Through the bay to Adragool.

Now he rises o'er Berehaven, where he hangeth like a raven--

Ah! Maurice, though no craven, how terrible for thee

To see the misty shading of the mighty mountains fading,

And thy winged fire-steed wading through the clouds as through a sea!

Now he feels the earth beneath him--he is loosen'd--he is free,

And asleep in Ceim-an-eich.

Away the wild steed leapeth, while his rider calmly sleepeth

Beneath a rock which keepeth the entrance to the glen,

Which standeth like a castle, where are dwelling lord and vassal,

Where within are wind and wassail, and without are warrior men;

But save the sleeping Maurice, this castle cliff had then

No mortal denizen![104]

Now Maurice is awaking, for the solid earth is shaking,

And a sunny light is breaking through the slowly opening stone

And a fair page at the portal crieth, "Welcome, welcome! mortal,

Leave thy world (at best a short ill), for the pleasant world we own:

There are joys by thee untasted, there are glories yet unknown--

Come kneel at Una's throne."

With a sullen sound of thunder, the great rock falls asunder,

He looks around in wonder, and with ravishment awhile,

For the air his sense is chaining, with as exquisite a paining

As when summer clouds are raining o'er a flowery Indian isle;

And the faces that surround him, oh! how exquisite their smile,

So free of mortal care and guile.

These forms, oh! they are finer--these faces are diviner

Than, Phidias, even thine are, with all thy magic art;

For beyond an artist's guessing, and beyond a bard's expressing,

Is the face that truth is dressing with the feelings of the heart;

Two worlds are there together--earth and heaven have each a part--

And of such, divinest Una, thou art!

And then the dazzling lustre of the hall in which they muster--

Where the brightest diamonds cluster on the flashing walls around;

And the flying and advancing, and the sighing and the glancing.

And the music and the dancing on the flower-inwoven ground,

And the laughing and the feasting, and the quaffing and the sound,

In which their voices all are drowned.

But the murmur now is hushing--there's a pushing and a rushing,

There's a crowding and a crushing, through that golden, fairy place,

Where a snowy veil is lifting, like the slow and silent shifting

Of a shining vapour drifting across the moon's pale face--

For there sits gentle Una, fairest queen of fairy race,

In her beauty, and her majesty, and grace.

The moon by stars attended, on her pearly throne ascended,

Is not more purely splendid than this fairy-girted queen;

And when her lips had spoken, 'mid the charmed silence broken,

You'd think you had awoken in some bright Elysian scene;

For her voice than the lark's was sweeter, that sings in joy between

The heavens and the meadows green.

But her cheeks--ah! what are roses?--what are clouds where eve

reposes?--

What are hues that dawn discloses?--to the blushes spreading there;

And what the sparkling motion of a star within the ocean,

To the crystal soft emotion that her lustrous dark eyes wear?

And the tresses of a moonless and a starless night are fair

To the blackness of her raven hair.

Ah! mortal hearts have panted for what to thee is granted--

To see the halls enchanted of the spirit world revealed;

And yet no glimpse assuages the feverish doubt that rages

In the hearts of bards and sages wherewith they may be healed;

For this have pilgrims wandered--for this have votaries kneeled--

For this, too, has blood bedewed the field.

"And now that thou beholdest what the wisest and the oldest,

What the bravest and the boldest, have never yet descried,

Wilt thou come and share our being, be a part of what thou'rt seeing,

And flee, as we are fleeing, through the boundless ether wide?

Or along the silver ocean, or down deep where pale pearls hide?

And I, who am a queen, will be thy bride.

"As an essence thou wilt enter the world's mysterious centre,"

And then the fairy bent her, imploring to the youth--

"Thou'lt be free of Death's cold ghastness, and, with a comet's

fastness,

Thou canst wander through the vastness to the Paradise of Truth,

Each day a new joy bringing, which will never leave in sooth

The slightest stain of weariness and ruth."

As he listened to the speaker, his heart grew weak and weaker--

Ah! Memory, go seek her, that maiden by the wave,

Who with terror and amazement is looking from her casement,

Where the billows at the basement of her nestled cottage rave,

At the moon which struggles onward through the tempest, like the brave,

And which sinks within the clouds as in a grave.

All maidens will abhor us, and it's very painful for us

To tell how faithless Maurice forgot his plighted vow:

He thinks not of the breaking of the heart he late was seeking,

He but listens to her speaking, and but gazes on her brow;

And his heart has all consented, and his lips are ready now

With the awful and irrevocable vow.

While the word is there abiding, lo! the crowd is now dividing,

And, with sweet and gentle gliding, in before him came a fawn;

It was the same that fled him, and that seemed so much to dread him,

When it down in triumph led him to Glengariff's grassy lawn,

When, from rock to rock descending, to sweet Alice he was drawn,

As through Ceim-an-eich he hunted from the dawn.

The magic chain is broken--no fairy vow is spoken--

From his trance he hath awoken, and once again is free;

And gone is Una's palace, and vain the wild steed's malice,

And again to gentle Alice down he wends through Ceim-an-eich:

The moon is calmly shining over mountain, stream, and tree,

And the yellow sea-plants glisten through the sea.

The sun his gold is flinging, the happy birds are singing,

And bells are gaily ringing along Glengariff's sea;

And crowds in many a galley to the happy marriage rally

Of the maiden of the valley and the youth of Ceim-an-eich;

Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask on bended knee

A blessing, gentle Alice, upon thee!

99. The pass of Keim-an-eigh (the path of the deer) lies to the

south-west of Inchageela, in the direction of Bantry Bay.

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

purpurea.'

101. The Phooka is described as belonging to the malignant class of

fairy beings, and he is as wild and capricious in his character as he is

changeable in his form. At one time an eagle or an 'ignis fatuus,' at

another a horse or a bull, while occasionally he figures as a compound

of the calf and goat. When he assumes the form of a horse, his great

object, according to a recent writer, seems to be to obtain a rider, and

then he is in his most malignant glory.--See Croker's "Fairy Legends."

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

103. Glashenglora, a mountain torrent, which finds its way into

the Atlantic Ocean through Glengariff, in the west of the county of

Cork. The name, literally translated, signifies "the noisy green

water."--Barry's "Songs of Ireland," p. 173.

104. There is a great square rock, literally resembling the description

in the text, which stands near the Glengariff entrance to the pass of

Ceim-an-eich.

National Poems and Songs.

ADVANCE!

God bade the sun with golden step sublime,

Advance!

He whispered in the listening ear of Time,

Advance!

He bade the guiding spirits of the stars,

With lightning speed, in silver shining cars,

Along the bright floor of his azure hall,

Advance!

Sun, stars, and time obey the voice, and all

Advance!

The river at its bubbling fountain cries,

Advance!

The clouds proclaim, like heralds through the skies,

Advance!

Throughout the world the mighty Master's laws

Allow not one brief moment's idle pause;

The earth is full of life, the swelling seeds

Advance!

And summer hours, like flowery harnessed steeds,

Advance!

To man's most wondrous hand the same voice cried,

Advance!

Go clear the woods, and o'er the bounding tide

Advance!

Go draw the marble from its secret bed,

And make the cedar bend its giant head;

Let domes and columns through the wondering air

Advance!

The world, O man! is thine; but, wouldst thou share,

Advance!

Unto the soul of man the same voice spoke,

Advance!

From out the chaos, thunder-like, it broke,

"Advance!

Go track the comet in its wheeling race,

And drag the lightning from its hiding-place;

From out the night of ignorance and fears,

Advance!

For Love and Hope, borne by the coming years,

Advance!"

All heard, and some obeyed the great command,

Advance!

It passed along from listening land to land,

Advance!

The strong grew stronger, and the weak grew strong,

As passed the war-cry of the world along--

Awake, ye nations, know your powers and rights--

Advance!

Through hope and work to Freedom's new delights,

Advance!

Knowledge came down and waved her steady torch,

Advance!

Sages proclaimed 'neath many a marble porch,

Advance!

As rapid lightning leaps from peak to peak,

The Gaul, the Goth, the Roman, and the Greek,

The painted Briton caught the wing`ed word,

Advance!

And earth grew young, and carolled as a bird,

Advance!

O Ireland! oh, my country, wilt thou not

Advance?

Wilt thou not share the world's progressive lot?--

Advance!

Must seasons change, and countless years roll on,

And thou remain a darksome Ajalon?

And never see the crescent moon of Hope

Advance?

'Tis time thine heart and eye had wider scope--

Advance!

Dear brothers, wake! look up! be firm! be strong

Advance!

From out the starless night of fraud and wrong

Advance!

The chains have fall'n from off thy wasted hands,

And every man a seeming freedman stands;--

But, ah! 'tis in the soul that freedom dwells,--

Advance!

Proclaim that there thou wearest no manacles;--

Advance!

Advance! thou must advance or perish now;--

Advance!

Advance! Why live with wasted heart and brow?--

Advance!

Advance! or sink at once into the grave;

Be bravely free or artfully a slave!

Why fret thy master, if thou must have one?

Advance!

Advance three steps, the glorious work is done;--

Advance!

The first is COURAGE--'tis a giant stride!--

Advance!

With bounding step up Freedom's rugged side

Advance!

KNOWLEDGE will lead thee to the dazzling heights,

TOLERANCE will teach and guard thy brother's rights.

Faint not! for thee a pitying Future waits--

Advance!

Be wise, be just, with will as fixed as Fate's,--

Advance!

REMONSTRANCE.

Bless the dear old verdant land,

Brother, wert thou born of it?

As thy shadow life doth stand,

Twining round its rosy band,

Did an Irish mother's hand

Guide thee in the morn of it?

Did thy father's soft command

Teach thee love or scorn of it?

Thou who tread'st its fertile breast,

Dost thou feel a glow for it?

Thou, of all its charms possest,

Living on its first and best,

Art thou but a thankless guest,

Or a traitor foe for it?

If thou lovest, where the test?

Wouldst thou strike a blow for it?

Has the past no goading sting

That can make thee rouse for it?

Does thy land's reviving spring,

Full of buds and blossoming,

Fail to make thy cold heart cling,

Breathing lover's vows for it?

With the circling ocean's ring

Thou wert made a spouse for it!

Hast thou kept, as thou shouldst keep,

Thy affections warm for it,

Letting no cold feeling creep,

Like the ice breath o'er the deep,

Freezing to a stony sleep

Hopes the heart would form for it--

Glories that like rainbows weep

Through the darkening storm for it?

What we seek is Nature's right--

Freedom and the aids of it;--

Freedom for the mind's strong flight

Seeking glorious shapes star-bright

Through the world's intensest night,

When the sunshine fades of it!

Truth is one, and so is light,

Yet how many shades of it!

A mirror every heart doth wear,

For heavenly shapes to shine in it;

If dim the glass or dark the air,

That Truth, the beautiful and fair,

God's glorious image, shines not there,

Or shines with nought divine in it:

A sightless lion in its lair,

The darkened soul must pine in it!

Son of this old, down-trodden land,

Then aid us in the fight for it;

We seek to make it great and grand,

Its shipless bays, its naked strand,

By canvas-swelling breezes fanned.

Oh! what a glorious sight for it!

The past expiring like a brand,

In morning's rosy light for it!

Think that this dear old land is thine,

And thou a traitor slave of it;

Think how the Switzer leads his kine,

When pale the evening star doth shine,

His song has home in every line,

Freedom in every stave of it!

Think how the German loves his Rhine,

And worships every wave of it!

Our own dear land is bright as theirs,

But, oh! our hearts are cold for it;

Awake! we are not slaves but heirs;

Our fatherland requires our cares,

Our work with man, with God our prayers.

Spurn blood-stained Judas-gold for it,

Let us do all that honour dares--

Be earnest, faithful, bold for it!

IRELAND'S VOW.

Come! Liberty, come! we are ripe for thy coming--

Come freshen the hearts where thy rival has trod--

Come, richest and rarest!--come, purest and fairest!--

Come, daughter of Science!--come, gift of the God!

Long, long have we sighed for thee, coyest of maidens--

Long, long have we worshipped thee, queen of the brave!

Steadily sought for thee, readily fought for thee,

Purpled the scaffold and glutted the grave!

On went the fight through the cycle of ages,

Never our battle-cry ceasing the while;

Forward, ye valiant ones! onward, battalioned ones!

Strike for your Erin, your own darling isle!

Still in the ranks are we, struggling with eagerness,

Still in the battle for Freedom are we!

Words may avail in it--swords if they fail in it,

What matters the weapon, if only we're free?

Oh! we are pledged in the face of the universe,

Never to falter and never to swerve;

Toil for it!--bleed for it!--if there be need for it,

Stretch every sinew and strain every nerve!

Traitors and cowards our names shall be ever,

If for a moment we turn from the chase;

For ages exhibited, scoffed at, and gibbeted,

As emblems of all that was servile and base!

Irishmen! Irishmen! think what is Liberty,

Fountain of all that is valued and dear,

Peace and security, knowledge and purity,

Hope for hereafter and happiness here.

Nourish it, treasure it deep in your inner heart--

Think of it ever by night and by day;

Pray for it!--sigh for it!--work for it!--die for it!--

What is this life and dear freedom away?

List! scarce a sound can be heard in our thoroughfares--

Look! scarce a ship can be seen on our streams;

Heart-crushed and desolate, spell-bound, irresolute,

Ireland but lives in the bygone of dreams!

Irishmen! if we be true to our promises,

Nerving our souls for more fortunate hours,

Life's choicest blessings, love's fond caressings,

Peace, home, and happiness, all shall be ours!

A DREAM.

I dreamt a dream, a dazzling dream, of a green isle far away,

Where the glowing West to the ocean's breast calleth the dying day;

And that island green was as fair a scene as ever man's eye did see,

With its chieftains bold and its temples old, and its homes and its

altars free!

No foreign foe did that green isle know, no stranger band it bore,

Save the merchant train from sunny Spain, and from Afric's golden shore!

And the young man's heart would fondly start, and the old man's eye

would smile,

As their thoughts would roam o'er the ocean foam to that lone and "holy

isle!"

Years passed by, and the orient sky blazed with a newborn light,

And Bethlehem's star shone bright afar o'er the lost world's darksome

night;

And the diamond shrines from plundered mines, and the golden fanes of

Jove,

Melted away in the blaze of day at the simple spellword--Love!

The light serene o'er that island green played with its saving beams,

And the fires of Baal waxed dim and pale like the stars in the morning

streams!

And 'twas joy to hear, in the bright air clear, from out each sunny

glade,

The tinkling bell, from the quiet cell, or the cloister's tranquil

shade!

A cloud of night o'er that dream so bright soon with its dark wing came,

And the happy scene of that island green was lost in blood and shame;

For its kings unjust betrayed their trust, and its queens, though fair,

were frail,

And a robber band, from a stranger land, with their war-whoops filled

the gale;

A fatal spell on that green isle fell, a shadow of death and gloom

Passed withering o'er, from shore to shore, like the breath of the foul

simoom;

And each green hill's side was crimson dyed, and each stream rolled red

and wild,

With the mingled blood of the brave and good--of mother and maid and

child!

Dark was my dream, though many a gleam of hope through that black night

broke,

Like a star's bright form through a whistling storm, or the moon through

a midnight oak!

And many a time, with its wings sublime, and its robes of saffron light,

Would the morning rise on the eastern skies, but to vanish again in

night!

For, in abject prayer, the people there still raised their fettered

hands,

When the sense of right and the power to smite are the spirit that

commands;

For those who would sneer at the mourner's tear, and heed not the

suppliant's sigh,

Would bow in awe to that first great law, a banded nation's cry!

At length arose o'er that isle of woes a dawn with a steadier smile,

And in happy hour a voice of power awoke the slumbering isle!

And the people all obeyed the call of their chief's unsceptred hand,

Vowing to raise, as in ancient days, the name of their own dear land!

My dream grew bright as the sunbeam's light, as I watched that isle's

career,

Through the varied scene and the joys serene of many a future year;

And, oh! what a thrill did my bosom fill as I gazed on a pillared pile,

Where a senate once more in power watched o'er the rights of that lone

green isle!

THE PRICE OF FREEDOM.

Man of Ireland, heir of sorrow,

Wronged, insulted, scorned, oppressed,

Wilt thou never see that morrow

When thy weary heart may rest?

Lift thine eyes, thou outraged creature;

Nay, look up, for man thou art,

Man in form, and frame, and feature,

Why not act man's god-like part?

Think, reflect, inquire, examine,

Is it for this God gave you birth--

With the spectre look of famine,

Thus to creep along the earth?

Does this world contain no treasures

Fit for thee, as man, to wear?--

Does this life abound in pleasures,

And thou askest not to share?

Look! the nations are awaking,

Every chain that bound them burst!

At the crystal fountains slaking

With parched lips their fever thirst!

Ignorance the demon, fleeing,

Leaves unlocked the fount they sip;

Wilt thou not, thou wretched being,

Stoop and cool thy burning lip?

History's lessons, if thou'lt read 'em,

All proclaim this truth to thee:

Knowledge is the price of freedom,

Know thyself, and thou art free!

Know, O man! thy proud vocation,

Stand erect, with calm, clear brow--

Happy! happy were our nation,

If thou hadst that knowledge now!

Know thy wretched, sad condition,

Know the ills that keep thee so;

Knowledge is the sole physician,

Thou wert healed if thou didst know!

Those who crush, and scorn, and slight thee,

Those to whom thou once wouldst kneel,

Were the foremost then to right thee,

Didst thou but feel as thou shouldst feel!

Not as beggars lowly bending,

Not in sighs, and groans, and tears,

But a voice of thunder sending

Through thy tyrant brother's ears!

Tell him he is not thy master,

Tell him of man's common lot,

Feel life has but one disaster,

To be a slave, and know it not!

Didst but prize what knowledge giveth,

Didst but know how blest is he

Who in Freedom's presence liveth,

Thou wouldst die, or else be free!

Round about he looks in gladness,

Joys in heaven, and earth, and sea,

Scarcely heaves a sigh of sadness,

Save in thoughts of such as thee!

THE VOICE AND PEN.

Oh! the orator's voice is a mighty power,

As it echoes from shore to shore,

And the fearless pen has more sway o'er men

Than the murderous cannon's roar!

What burst the chain far over the main,

And brighten'd the captive's den?

'Twas the fearless pen and the voice of power,

Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

Hurrah!

Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

The tyrant knaves who deny man's rights,

And the cowards who blanch with fear,

Exclaim with glee: "No arms have ye,

Nor cannon, nor sword, nor spear!

Your hills are ours--with our forts and towers

We are masters of mount and glen!"

Tyrants, beware! for the arms we bear

Are the Voice and the fearless Pen!

Hurrah!

Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

Though your horsemen stand with their bridles in hand,

And your sentinels walk around!

Though your matches flare in the midnight air,

And your brazen trumpets sound!

Oh! the orator's tongue shall be heard among

These listening warrior men;

And they'll quickly say: "Why should we slay

Our friends of the Voice and Pen?"

Hurrah!

Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

When the Lord created the earth and sea,

The stars and the glorious sun,

The Godhead spoke, and the universe woke

And the mighty work was done!

Let a word be flung from the orator's tongue,

Or a drop from the fearless pen,

And the chains accursed asunder burst

That fettered the minds of men!

Hurrah!

Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

Oh! these are the swords with which we fight,

The arms in which we trust,

Which no tyrant hand will dare to brand,

Which time cannot dim or rust!

When these we bore we triumphed before,

With these we'll triumph again!

And the world will say no power can stay

The Voice and the fearless Pen!

Hurrah!

Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

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

Oh! thou whom sacred duty hither calls,

Some glorious hours in freedom's cause to dwell,

Read the mute lesson on thy prison walls,

"Cease to do evil--learn to do well."

If haply thou art one of genius vast,

Of generous heart, of mind sublime and grand,

Who all the spring-time of thy life has pass'd

Battling with tyrants for thy native land,

If thou hast spent thy summer as thy prime,

The serpent brood of bigotry to quell,

Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime,

"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!"

If thy great heart beat warmly in the cause

Of outraged man, whate'er his race might be,

If thou hast preached the Christian's equal laws,

And stayed the lash beyond the Indian sea!

If at thy call a nation rose sublime,

If at thy voice seven million fetters fell,--

Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime,

"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!"

If thou hast seen thy country's quick decay,

And, like the prophet, raised thy saving hand,

And pointed out the only certain way

To stop the plague that ravaged o'er the land!

If thou hast summoned from an alien clime

Her banished senate here at home to dwell:

Repent, repent thee of thy hideous crime,

"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!"

Or if, perchance, a younger man thou art,

Whose ardent soul in throbbings doth aspire,

Come weal, come woe, to play the patriot's part

In the bright footsteps of thy glorious sire

If all the pleasures of life's youthful time

Thou hast abandoned for the martyr's cell,

Do thou repent thee of thy hideous crime,

"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!"

Or art thou one whom early science led

To walk with Newton through the immense of heaven,

Who soared with Milton, and with Mina bled,

And all thou hadst in freedom's cause hast given?

Oh! fond enthusiast--in the after time

Our children's children of thy worth shall tell--

England proclaims thy honesty a crime,

"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!"

Or art thou one whose strong and fearless pen

Roused the Young Isle, and bade it dry its tears,

And gathered round thee ardent, gifted men,

The hope of Ireland in the coming years?

Who dares in prose and heart-awakening rhyme,

Bright hopes to breathe and bitter truths to tell?

Oh! dangerous criminal, repent thy crime,

"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!"

"Cease to do evil"--ay! ye madmen, cease!

Cease to love Ireland--cease to serve her well;

Make with her foes a foul and fatal peace,

And quick will ope your darkest, dreariest cell.

"Learn to do well"--ay! learn to betray,

Learn to revile the land in which you dwell

England will bless you on your altered way

"Cease to do evil--learn to do well!"

105. This inscription is on the front of Richmond Penitentiary, Dublin,

in which O'Connell and the other political prisoners were confined in

the year 1844.

THE LIVING LAND.

We have mourned and sighed for our buried pride,[106]

We have given what nature gives,

A manly tear o'er a brother's bier,

But now for the Land that lives!

He who passed too soon, in his glowing noon,

The hope of our youthful band,

From heaven's blue wall doth seem to call

"Think, think of your Living Land!

I dwell serene in a happier scene,

Ye dwell in a Living Land!"

Yes! yes! dear shade, thou shalt be obeyed,

We must spend the hour that flies,

In no vain regret for the sun that has set,

But in hope for another to rise;

And though it delay with its guiding ray,

We must each, with his little brand,

Like sentinels light through the dark, dark night,

The steps of our Living Land.

She needeth our care in the chilling air--

Our old, dear Living Land!

Yet our breasts will throb, and the tears will throng

To our eyes for many a day,

For an eagle in strength and a lark in song

Was the spirit that passed away.

Though his heart be still as a frozen rill,

And pulseless his glowing hand,

We must struggle the more for that old green shore

He was making a Living Land.

By him we have lost, at whatever the cost,

She must be a Living Land!

A Living Land, such as Nature plann'd,

When she hollowed our harbours deep,

When she bade the grain wave o'er the plain,

And the oak wave over the steep:

When she bade the tide roll deep and wide,

From its source to the ocean strand,

Oh! it was not to slaves she gave these waves,

But to sons of a Living Land!

Sons who have eyes and hearts to prize

The worth of a Living Land!

Oh! when shall we lose the hostile hues,

That have kept us so long apart?

Or cease from the strife, that is crushing the life

From out of our mother's heart?

Could we lay aside our doubts and our pride,

And join in a common band,

One hour would see our country free,

A young and a Living Land!

With a nation's heart and a nation's part,

A free and a Living Land!

106. Thomas Davis.

THE DEAD TRIBUNE.

The awful shadow of a great man's death

Falls on this land, so sad and dark before--

Dark with the famine and the fever breath,

And mad dissensions knawing at its core.

Oh! let us hush foul discord's maniac roar,

And make a mournful truce, however brief,

Like hostile armies when the day is o'er!

And thus devote the night-time of our grief

To tears and prayers for him, the great departed chief.

In "Genoa the Superb" O'Connell dies--

That city of Columbus by the sea,

Beneath the canopy of azure skies,

As high and cloudless as his fame must be.

Is it mere chance or higher destiny

That brings these names together? One, the bold

Wanderer in ways that none had trod but he--

The other, too, exploring paths untold;

One a new world would seek, and one would save the old!

With childlike incredulity we cry,

It cannot be that great career is run,

It cannot be but in the eastern sky

Again will blaze that mighty world-watch'd sun!

Ah! fond deceit, the east is dark and dun,

Death's black, impervious cloud is on the skies;

Toll the deep bell, and fire the evening gun,

Let honest sorrow moisten manly eyes:

A glorious sun has set that never more shall rise!

Brothers, who struggle yet in Freedom's van,

Where'er your forces o'er the world are spread,

The last great champion of the rights of man--

The last great Tribune of the world is dead!

Join in our grief, and let our tears be shed

Without reserve or coldness on his bier;

Look on his life as on a map outspread--

His fight for freedom--freedom far and near--

And if a speck should rise, oh! hide it with a tear!

To speak his praises little need have we

To tell the wonders wrought within these waves

Enough, so well he taught us to be free,

That even to him we could not kneel as slaves.

Oh! let our tears be fast-destroying graves,

Where doubt and difference may for ever lie,

Buried and hid as in sepulchral caves;

And let love's fond and reverential eye

Alone behold the star new risen in the sky!

But can it be, that well-known form is stark?

Can it be true, that burning heart is chill?

Oh! can it be that twinkling eye is dark?

And that great thunder voice is hush'd and still?

Never again upon the famous hill

Will he preside as monarch of the land,

With myriad myriads subject to his will;

Never again shall raise that powerful hand,

To rouse, to warm, to check, to kindle, and command!

The twinkling eye, so full of changeful light,

Is dimmed and darkened in a dread eclipse;

The withering scowl, the smile so sunny bright,

Alike have faded from his voiceless lips.

The words of power, the mirthful, merry quips,

The mighty onslaught, and the quick reply,

The biting taunts that cut like stinging whips,

The homely truth, the lessons grave and high,

All, all are with the past, but cannot, shall not die!

A MYSTERY.

They are dying! they are dying! where the golden corn is growing,

They are dying! they are dying! where the crowded herds are lowing;

They are gasping for existence where the streams of life are flowing,

And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing!

God of Justice! God of Power!

Do we dream? Can it be?

In this land, at this hour,

With the blossom on the tree,

In the gladsome month of May,

When the young lambs play,

When Nature looks around

On her waking children now,

The seed within the ground,

The bud upon the bough?

Is it right, is it fair,

That we perish of despair

In this land, on this soil,

Where our destiny is set,

Which we cultured with our toil,

And watered with our sweat?

We have ploughed, we have sown

But the crop was not our own;

We have reaped, but harpy hands

Swept the harvest from our lands;

We were perishing for food,

When, lo! in pitying mood,

Our kindly rulers gave

The fat fluid of the slave,

While our corn filled the manger

Of the war-horse of the stranger!

God of Mercy! must this last?

Is this land preordained

For the present and the past,

And the future, to be chained,

To be ravaged, to be drained,

To be robbed, to be spoiled,

To be hushed, to be whipt,

Its soaring pinions clipt,

And its every effort foiled?

Do our numbers multiply

But to perish and to die?

Is this all our destiny below,

That our bodies, as they rot,

May fertilise the spot

Where the harvests of the stranger grow?

If this be, indeed, our fate,

Far, far better now, though late,

That we seek some other land and try some other zone;

The coldest, bleakest shore

Will surely yield us more

Than the store-house of the stranger that we dare not call our own.

Kindly brothers of the West,

Who from Liberty's full breast

Have fed us, who are orphans, beneath a step-dame's frown,

Behold our happy state,

And weep your wretched fate

That you share not in the splendours of our empire and our crown!

Kindly brothers of the East,

Thou great tiara'd priest,

Thou sanctified Rienzi of Rome and of the earth--

Or thou who bear'st control

Over golden Istambol,

Who felt for our misfortunes and helped us in our dearth,

Turn here your wondering eyes,

Call your wisest of the wise,

Your Muftis and your ministers, your men of deepest lore;

Let the sagest of your sages

Ope our island's mystic pages,

And explain unto your Highness the wonders of our shore.

A fruitful teeming soil,

Where the patient peasants toil

Beneath the summer's sun and the watery winter sky--

Where they tend the golden grain

Till it bends upon the plain,

Then reap it for the stranger, and turn aside to die.

Where they watch their flocks increase,

And store the snowy fleece,

Till they send it to their masters to be woven o'er the waves;

Where, having sent their meat

For the foreigner to eat,

Their mission is fulfilled, and they creep into their graves.

'Tis for this they are dying where the golden corn is growing,

'Tis for this they are dying where the crowded herds are lowing,

'Tis for this they are dying where the streams of life are flowing,

And they perish of the plague where the breeze of health is blowing.

Sonnets.

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

Long have I loved the beauty of thy streets,

Fair Dublin: long, with unavailing vows,

Sigh'd to all guardian deities who rouse

The spirits of dead nations to new heats

Of life and triumph:--vain the fond conceits,

Nestling like eaves-warmed doves 'neath patriot brows!

Vain as the "Hope," that from thy Custom-House

Looks o'er the vacant bay in vain for fleets.

Genius alone brings back the days of yore:

Look! look, what life is in these quaint old shops--

The loneliest lanes are rattling with the roar

of coach and chair; fans, feathers, flambeaus, fops,

Flutter and flicker through yon open door,

Where Handel's hand moves the great organ stops.[107]

March 11th, 1856.

107. It is stated that the "Messiah" was first publicly performed in

Dublin. See Gilbert's "History of Dublin," vol. i. p. 75, and

Townsend's "Visit of Handel to Dublin," p. 64.

TO HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

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

Pensive within the Coliseum's walls

I stood with thee, O Poet of the West!--

The day when each had been a welcome guest

In San Clemente's venerable halls:--

With what delight my memory now recalls

That hour of hours, that flower of all the rest,

When, with thy white beard falling on thy breast,

That noble head, that well might serve as Paul's

In some divinest vision of the saint

By Raffael dreamed--I heard thee mourn the dead--

The martyred host who fearless there, though faint,

Walked the rough road that up to heaven's gate led:

These were the pictures Calderon loved to paint

In golden hues that here perchance have fled.

Yet take the colder copy from my hand,

Not for its own but for the Master's sake;

Take it, as thou, returning home, wilt take

From that divinest soft Italian land

Fixed shadows of the beautiful and grand

In sunless pictures that the sun doth make--

Reflections that may pleasant memories wake

Of all that Raffael touched, or Angelo planned:--

As these may keep what memory else might lose,

So may this photograph of verse impart

An image, though without the native hues

Of Calderon's fire, and yet with Calderon's art,

Of what thou lovest through a kindred muse

That sings in heaven, yet nestles in the heart.

Dublin, August 24th, 1869.

TO KENELM HENRY DIGBY,

AUTHOR OF "MORES CATHOLICI," "THE BROADSTONE OF HONOUR,"

"COMPITUM," ETC.

(On being presented by him with a copy, painted by himself, of a rare

Portrait of Calderon.)

How can I thank thee for this gift of thine,

Digby, the dawn and day-star of our age,

Forerunner thou of many a saint and sage

Who since have fought and conquer'd 'neath the Sign?

Thou hast left, as in a sacred shrine--

What shrine more pure than thy unspotted page?--

The priceless relics, as a heritage,

Of loftiest thoughts and lessons most divine.

Poet and teacher of sublimest lore,

Thou scornest not the painter's mimic skill,

And thus hath come, obedient to thy will

The outward form that Calderon's spirit wore.

Ah! happy canvas that two glories fill,

Where Calderon lives 'neath Digby's hand once more.

October 15th, 1878.

TO ETHNA.[108]

Ethna, to cull sweet flowers divinely fair,

To seek for gems of such transparent light

As would not be unworthy to unite

Round thy fair brow, and through thy dark-brown hair,

I would that I had wings to cleave the air,

In search of some far region of delight,

That back to thee from that adventurous flight,

A glorious wreath my happy hands might bear;

Soon would the sweetest Persian rose be thine--

Soon would the glory of Golconda's mine

Flash on thy forehead, like a star--ah! me,

In place of these, I bring, with trembling hand,

These fading wild flowers from our native land--

These simple pebbles from the Irish Sea!

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

first volume of poems.

Underglimpses.

THE ARRAYING.

The blue-eyed maidens of the sea

With trembling haste approach the lee,

So small and smooth, they seem to be

Not waves, but children of the waves,

And as each link`ed circle laves

The crescent marge of creek and bay,

Their mingled voices all repeat--

O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

We come to bathe thy snow-white feet.

We bring thee treasures rich and rare,

White pearl to deck thy golden hair,

And coral beads, so smoothly fair

And free from every flaw or speck;

That they may lie upon thy neck,

This sweetest day--this brightest day

That ever on the green world shone--

O lovely May, O long'd-for May!

As if thy neck and thee were one.

We bring thee from our distant home

Robes of the pure white-woven foam,

And many a pure, transparent comb,

Formed of the shells the tortoise plaits,

By Babelmandeb's coral-straits;

And amber vases, with inlay

Of roseate pearl time never dims--

O lovely May! O longed-for May!

Wherein to lave thine ivory limbs.

We bring, as sandals for thy feet,

Beam-broidered waves, like those that greet,

With green and golden chrysolite,

The setting sun's departing beams,

When all the western water seems

Like emeralds melted by his ray,

So softly bright, so gently warm--

O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

That thou canst trust thy tender form.

And lo! the ladies of the hill,

The rippling stream, and sparkling rill,

With rival speed, and like good will,

Come, bearing down the mountain's side

The liquid crystals of the tide,

In vitreous vessels clear as they,

And cry, from each worn, winding path:

O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

We come to lead thee to the bath.

And we have fashioned, for thy sake,

Mirrors more bright than art could make--

The silvery-sheeted mountain lake

Hangs in its carv`ed frame of rocks,

Wherein to dress thy dripping locks,

Or bind the dewy curls that stray

Thy trembling breast meandering down--

O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

Within their self-woven crown.

Arise, O May! arise and see

Thine emerald robes are held for thee

By many a hundred-handed tree,

Who lift from all the fields around

The verdurous velvet from the ground,

And then the spotless vestments lay,

Smooth-folded o'er their outstretch'd arms--

O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

Wherein to fold thy virgin charms.

Thy robes are stiff with golden bees,

Dotted with gems more bright than these,

And scented by each perfumed breeze

That, blown from heaven's re-open'd bowers,

Become the souls of new-born flowers,

Who thus their sacred birth betray;

Heavenly thou art, nor less should be--

O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

The favour'd forms that wait on thee.

The moss to guard thy feet is spread,

The wreaths are woven for thy head,

The rosy curtains of thy bed

Become transparent in the blaze

Of the strong sun's resistless gaze:

Then lady, make no more delay,

The world still lives, though spring be dead--

O lovely May! O long'd-for May!

And thou must rule and reign instead.

The lady from her bed arose,

Her bed the leaves the moss-bud blows

Herself a lily in that rose;

The maidens of the streams and sands

Bathe some her feet and some her hands:

And some the emerald robes display;

Her dewy locks were then upcurled,

And lovely May--the long'd-for May--

Was crown'd the Queen of all the World!

THE SEARCH.

Let us seek the modest May,

She is down in the glen,

Hiding and abiding

From the common gaze of men,

Where the silver streamlet crosses

O'er the smooth stones green with mosses,

And glancing and dancing,

Goes singing on its way--

We shall find the modest maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the merry May,

She is up on the hill,

Laughing and quaffing

From the fountain and the rill.

Where the southern zephyr sprinkles,

Like bright smiles on age's wrinkles,

O'er the edges and ledges

Of the rocks, the wild flowers gay--

We shall find the merry maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the musing May,

She is deep in the wood,

Viewing and pursuing

The beautiful and good.

Where the grassy bank receding,

Spreads its quiet couch for reading

The pages of the sages,

And the poet's lyric lay--

We shall find the musing maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the mirthful May,

She is out on the strand

Racing and chasing

The ripples o'er the sand.

Where the warming waves discover

All the treasures that they cover,

Whitening and brightening

The pebbles for her play--

We shall find the mirthful maiden there to-day.

Let us seek the wandering May,

She is off to the plain,

Finding the winding

Of the labyrinthine lane.

She is passing through its mazes

While the hawthorn, as it gazes

With grief, lets its leaflets

Whiten all the way--

We shall find the wandering maiden there to-day.

Let us seek her in the ray--

Let us track her by the rill--

Wending ascending

The slopings of the hill.

Where the robin from the copses

Breathes a love-note, and then drops his

Trilling, till, willing,

His mate responds his lay--

We shall find the listening maiden there to-day.

But why seek her far away?

Like a young bird in its nest,

She is warming and forming

Her dwelling in her breast.

While the heart she doth repose on,

Like the down the sunwind blows on,

Gloweth, yet showeth

The trembling of the ray--

We shall find the happy maiden there to-day.

THE TIDINGS.

A bright beam came to my window frame,

This sweet May morn,

And it said to the cold, hard glass:

Oh! let me pass,

For I have good news to tell,

The queen of the dewy dell,

The beautiful May is born!

Warm with the race, through the open space,

This sweet May morn,

Came a soft wind out of the skies:

And it said to my heart--Arise!

Go forth from the winter's fire,

For the child of thy long desire,

The beautiful May is born!

The bright beam glanced and the soft wind danced,

This sweet May morn,

Over my cheek and over my eyes;

And I said with a glad surprise:

Oh! lead me forth, ye blessed twain,

Over the hill and over the plain,

Where the beautiful May is born.

Through the open door leaped the beam before

This sweet May morn,

And the soft wind floated along,

Like a poet's song,

Warm from his heart and fresh from his brain;

And they led me over the mount and plain,

To the beautiful May new-born.

My guide so bright and my guide so light,

This sweet May morn,

Led me along o'er the grassy ground,

And I knew by each joyous sight and sound,

The fields so green and the skies so gay,

That heaven and earth kept holiday,

That the beautiful May was born.

Out of the sea with their eyes of glee,

This sweet May morn,

Came the blue waves hastily on;

And they murmuring cried--Thou happy one!

Show us, O Earth! thy darling child,

For we heard far out on the ocean wild,

That the beautiful May was born.

The wing`ed flame to the rosebud came,

This sweet May morn,

And it said to the flower--Prepare!

Lay thy nectarine bosom bare;

Full soon, full soon, thou must rock to rest,

And nurse and feed on thy glowing breast,

The beautiful May now born.

The gladsome breeze through the trembling trees,

This sweet May morn,

Went joyously on from bough to bough;

And it said to the red-branched plum--O thou,

Cover with mimic pearls and gems,

And with silver bells, thy coral stems,

For the beautiful May now born.

Under the eaves and through the leaves

This sweet May morn,

The soft wind whispering flew:

And it said to the listening birds--Oh, you,

Sweet choristers of the skies,

Awaken your tenderest lullabies,

For the beautiful May now born.

The white cloud flew to the uttermost blue,

This sweet May morn,

It bore, like a gentle carrier-dove,

The bless`ed news to the realms above;

While its sister coo'd in the midst of the grove,

And within my heart the spirit of love,

That the beautiful May was born!

WELCOME, MAY.

Welcome, May! welcome, May!

Thou hast been too long away,

All the widow'd wintry hours

Wept for thee, gentle May;

But the fault was only ours--

We were sad when thou wert gay!

Welcome, May! welcome, May!

We are wiser far to-day--

Fonder, too, than we were then.

Gentle May! joyous May!

Now that thou art come again,

We perchance may make thee stay.

Welcome, May! welcome, May!

Everything kept holiday

Save the human heart alone.

Mirthful May! gladsome May!

We had cares and thou hadst none

When thou camest last this way!

When thou camest last this way

Blossoms bloomed on every spray,

Buds on barren boughs were born--

Fertile May! fruitful May!

Like the rose upon the thorn

Cannot grief awhile be gay?

'Tis not for the golden ray,

Or the flowers that strew thy way,

O immortal One! thou art

Here to-day, gentle May--

'Tis to man's ungrateful heart

That thy fairy footsteps stray.

'Tis to give that living clay

Flowers that ne'er can fade away--

Fond remembrances of bliss;

And a foretaste, mystic May,

Of the life that follows this,

Full of joys that last alway!

Other months are cold and gray,

Some are bright, but what are they?

Earth may take the whole eleven--

Hopeful May--happy May!

Thine the borrowed month of heaven

Cometh thence and points the way.

Wing`ed minstrels come and play

Through the woods their roundelay;

Who can tell but only thou,

Spirit-ear'd, inspir`ed May,

On the bud-embow'r`ed bough

What the happy lyrists say?

Is the burden of their lay

Love's desire, or Love's decay?

Are there not some fond regrets

Mix'd with these, divinest May,

For the sun that never sets

Down the everlasting day?

But upon thy wondrous way

Mirth alone should dance and play--

No regrets, how fond they be,

E'er should wound the ear of May--

Bow before her, flower and tree!

Nor, my heart, do thou delay.

THE MEETING OF THE FLOWERS.

There is within this world of ours

Full many a happy home and hearth;

What time, the Saviour's blessed birth

Makes glad the gloom of wintry hours.

When back from severed shore and shore,

And over seas that vainly part,

The scattered embers of the heart

Glow round the parent hearth once more.

When those who now are anxious men,

Forget their growing years and cares;

Forget the time-flakes on their hairs,

And laugh, light-hearted boys again.

When those who now are wedded wives,

By children of their own embraced,

Recall their early joys, and taste

Anew the childhood of their lives.

And the old people--the good sire

And kindly parent-mother--glow

To feel their children's children throw

Fresh warmth around the Christmas fire.

When in the sweet colloquial din,

Unheard the sullen sleet-winds shout;

And though the winter rage without,

The social summer reigns within.

But in this wondrous world of ours

Are other circling kindred chords,

Binding poor harmless beasts and birds,

And the fair family of flowers.

That family that meet to-day

From many a foreign field and glen,

For what is Christmas-tide with men

Is with the flowers the time of May.

Back to the meadows of the West,

Back to their natal fields they come;

And as they reach their wished-for home,

The Mother folds them to her breast.

And as she breathes, with balmy sighs,

A fervent blessing over them,

The tearful, glistening dews begem

The parents' and the children's eyes.

She spreads a carpet for their feet,

And mossy pillows for their heads,

And curtains round their fairy beds

With blossom-broidered branches sweet.

She feeds them with ambrosial food,

And fills their cups with nectared wine;

And all her choristers combine

To sing their welcome from the wood:

And all that love can do is done,

As shown to them in countless ways:

She kindles to the brighter blaze

The fireside of the world--the sun.

And with her own soft, trembling hands,

In many a calm and cool retreat,

She laves the dust that soils their feet

In coming from the distant lands.

Or, leading down some sinuous path,

Where the shy stream's encircling heights

Shut out all prying eyes, invites

Her lily daughters to the bath.

There, with a mother's harmless pride,

Admires them sport the waves among:

Now lay their ivory limbs along

The buoyant bosom of the tide.

Now lift their marble shoulders o'er

The rippling glass, or sink with fear,

As if the wind approaching near

Were some wild wooer from the shore.

Or else the parent turns to these,

The younglings born beneath her eye,

And hangs the baby-buds close by,

In wind-rocked cradles from the trees.

And as the branches fall and rise,

Each leafy-folded swathe expands:

And now are spread their tiny hands,

And now are seen their starry eyes.

But soon the feast concludes the day,

And yonder in the sun-warmed dell,

The happy circle meet to tell

Their labours since the bygone May.

A bright-faced youth is first to raise

His cheerful voice above the rest,

Who bears upon his hardy breast

A golden star with silver rays:[109]

Worthily won, for he had been

A traveller in many a land,

And with his slender staff in hand

Had wandered over many a green:

Had seen the Shepherd Sun unpen

Heaven's fleecy flocks, and let them stray

Over the high-pealed Himalay,

Till night shut up the fold again:

Had sat upon a mossy ledge,

O'er Baiae in the morning's beams,

Or where the sulphurous crater steams

Had hung suspended from the edge:

Or following its devious course

Up many a weary winding mile,

Had tracked the long, mysterious Nile

Even to its now no-fabled source:

Resting, perchance, as on he strode,

To see the herded camels pass

Upon the strips of wayside grass

That line with green the dust-white road.

Had often closed his weary lids

In oases that deck the waste,

Or in the mighty shadows traced

By the eternal pyramids.

Had slept within an Arab's tent,

Pitched for the night beneath a palm,

Or when was heard the vesper psalm,

With the pale nun in worship bent:

Or on the moonlit fields of France,

When happy village maidens trod

Lightly the fresh and verdurous sod,

There was he seen amid the dance:

Yielding with sympathizing stem

To the quick feet that round him flew,

Sprang from the ground as they would do,

Or sank unto the earth with them:

Or, childlike, played with girl and boy

By many a river's bank, and gave

His floating body to the wave,

Full many a time to give them joy.

These and a thousand other tales

The traveller told, and welcome found;

These were the simple tales went round

The happy circles in the vales.

Keeping reserved with conscious pride

His noblest act, his crowning feat,

How he had led even Humboldt's feet

Up Chimborazo's mighty side.

Guiding him through the trackless snow,

By sheltered clefts of living soil,

Sweet'ning the fearless traveller's toil,

With memories of the world below.

Such was the hardy Daisy's tale,

And then the maidens of the group--

Lilies, whose languid heads down droop

Over their pearl-white shoulders pale--

Told, when the genial glow of June

Had passed, they sought still warmer climes

And took beneath the verdurous limes

Their sweet siesta through the noon:

And seeking still, with fond pursuit,

The phantom Health, which lures and wiles

Its followers to the shores and isles

Of amber waves, and golden fruit.

There they had seen the orange grove

Enwreath its gold with buds of white,

As if themselves had taken flight,

And settled on the boughs above.

There kiss'd by every rosy mouth

And press'd to every gentle breast,

These pallid daughters of the West

Reigned in the sunshine of the South.

And thoughtful of the things divine,

Were oft by many an altar found,

Standing like white-robed angels round

The precincts of some sacred shrine.

And Violets, with dark blue eyes,

Told how they spent the winter time,

In Andalusia's Eden clime,

Or 'neath Italia's kindred skies.

Chiefly when evening's golden gloom

Veil'd Rome's serenest ether soft,

Bending in thoughtful musings oft,

Above the lost Alastor's tomb;

Or the twin-poet's; he who sings

"A thing of beauty never dies,"

Paying them back in fragrant sighs,

The love they bore all loveliest things.

The flower[110] whose bronz`ed cheeks recalls

The incessant beat of wind and sun,

Spoke of the lore his search had won

Upon Pompeii's rescued walls.

How, in his antiquarian march,

He crossed the tomb-strewn plain of Rome,

Sat on some prostrate plinth, or clomb

The Coliseum's topmost arch.

And thence beheld in glad amaze

What Nero's guilty eyes, aloof,

Drank in from off his golden roof--

The sun-bright city all ablaze:

Ablaze by day with solar fires--

Ablaze by night with lunar beams,

With lambent lustre on its streams,

And golden glories round its spires!

Thence he beheld that wondrous dome,

That, rising o'er the radiant town,

Circles, with Art's eternal crown,

The still imperial brow of Rome.

Nor was the Marigold remiss,

But told how in her crown of gold

She sat, like Persia's king of old,

High o'er the shores of Salamis;

And saw, against the morning sky,

The white-sailed fleets their wings display;

And ere the tranquil close of day,

Fade, like the Persian's from her eye.

Fleets, with their white flags all unfurl'd,

Inscribed with "Commerce," and with "Peace,"

Bearing no threatened ill to Greece,

But mutual good to all the world.

And various other flowers were seen:

Cowslip and Oxlip, and the tall

Tulip, whose grateful hearts recall

The winter homes where they had been.

Some in the sunny vales, beneath

The sheltering hills; and some, whose eyes

Were gladdened by the southern skies,

High up amid the blooming heath.

Meek, modest flowers, by poets loved,

Sweet Pansies, with their dark eyes fringed

With silken lashes finely tinged,

That trembled if a leaf but moved:

And some in gardens where the grass

Mossed o'er the green quadrangle's breast,

There dwelt each flower, a welcome guest,

In crystal palaces of glass:

Shown as a beauteous wonder there,

By beauty's hands to beauty's eyes,

Breathing what mimic art supplies,

The genial glow of sun-warm air.

Nor were the absent ones forgot,

Those whom a thousand cares detained,

Those whom the links of duty chained

Awhile from this their natal spot.

One, who is labour's useful tracks

Is proudly eminent, who roams

The providence of humble homes--

The blue-eyed, fair-haired, friendly Flax:

Giving himself to cheer and light

The cottier's else o'ershadowing murk,

Filling his hand with cheerful work,

And all his being with delight:

And one, the loveliest and the last,

For whom they waited day by day,

All through the merry month of May,

Till one-and-thirty days had passed.

And when, at length, the longed-for noon

Of night arched o'er th' expectant green

The Rose, their sister and their queen--

Came on the joyous wings of June:

And when was heard the gladsome sound,

And when was breath'd her beauteous name,

Unnumbered buds, like lamps of flame,

Gleamed from the hedges all around:

Where she had been, the distant clime,

The orient realm their sceptre sways,

The poet's pen may paint and praise

Hereafter in his simple rhyme.

109. The Daisy.

110. The Wallflower.

THE PROGRESS OF THE ROSE.

The days of old, the good old days,

Whose misty memories haunt us still,

Demand alike our blame and praise,

And claim their shares of good and ill.

They had strong faith in things unseen,

But stronger in the things they saw

Revenge for Mercy's pitying mien,

And lordly Right for equal Law.

'Tis true the cloisters all throughout

The valleys rais'd their peaceful towers,

And their sweet bells ne'er wearied out

In telling of the tranquil hours.

But from the craggy hills above,

A shadow darken'd o'er the sward;

For there--a vulture to this dove--

Hung the rude fortress of the lord;

Whence oft the ravening bird of prey

Descending, to his eyry wild

Bore, with exulting cries, away

The powerless serf's dishonour'd child.

Then Safety lit with partial beams

But the high-castled peaks of Force,

And Polity revers'd its streams,

And bade them flow but for their Source.

That Source from which, meandering down,

A thousand streamlets circle now;

For then the monarch's glorious crown

But girt the most rapacious brow.

But individual Force is dead,

And link'd Opinion late takes birth;

And now a woman's gentle head

Supports the mightiest crown on earth.

A pleasing type of all the change

Permitted to our eyes to see,

When she herself is free to range

Throughout the realm her rule makes free.

Not prison'd in a golden cage,

To sigh or sing her lonely state,

A show for youth or doating age,

With idiot eyes to contemplate.

But when the season sends a thrill

To ev'ry heart that lives and moves,

She seeks the freedom of the hill,

Or shelter of the noontide groves.

There, happy with her chosen mate,

And circled by her chirping brood,

Forgets the pain of being great

In the mere bliss of being good.

And thus the festive summer yields

No sight more happy, none so gay,

As when amid her subject-fields

She wanders on from day to day.

Resembling her, whom proud and fond,

The bard hath sung of--she of old,

Who bore upon her snow-white wand,

All Erin through, the ring of gold.

Thus, from her castles coming forth,

She wanders many a summer hour,

Bearing the ring of private worth

Upon the silver wand of Power.

Thus musing, while around me flew

Sweet airs from fancy's amaranth bowers,

Methought, what this fair queen doth do,

Hath yearly done the queen of flowers.

The beauteous queen of all the flowers,

Whose faintest sigh is like a spell,

Was born in Eden's sinless bowers

Long ere our primal parents fell.

There in a perfect form she grew,

Nor felt decay, nor tasted death;

Heaven was reflected in her hue,

And heaven's own odours filled her breath.

And ere the angel of the sword

Drove thence the founders of our race,

They knelt before him, and implor'd

Some relic of that radiant place:

Some relic that, while time would last,

Should make men weep their fatal sin;

Proof of the glory that was past,

And type of that they yet might win.

The angel turn'd, and ere his hands

The gates of bliss for ever close,

Pluck'd from the fairest tree that stands

Within heaven's walls--the peerless rose.

And as he gave it unto them,

Let fall a tear upon its leaves--

The same celestial liquid gem

We oft perceive on dewy eves.

Grateful the hapless twain went forth,

The golden portals backward whirl'd,

Then first they felt the biting north,

And all the rigour of this world.

Then first the dreadful curse had power

To chill the life-streams at their source,

Till e'en the sap within the flower

Grew curdled in its upward course.

They twin'd their trembling hands across

Their trembling breasts against the drift,

Then sought some little mound of moss

Wherein to lay their precious gift.

Some little soft and mossy mound,

Wherein the flower might rest till morn;

In vain! God's curse was on the ground,

For through the moss out gleam'd the thorn!

Out gleam'd the fork`ed plant, as if

The serpent tempter, in his rage,

Had put his tongue in every leaf

To mock them through their pilgrimage.

They did their best; their hands eras'd

The thorns of greater strength and size;

Then 'mid the softer moss they plac'd

The exiled flower of paradise.

The plant took root; the beams and showers

Came kindly, and its fair head rear'd;

But lo! around its heaven of flowers

The thorns and moss of earth appear'd.

Type of the greater change that then

Upon our hapless nature fell,

When the degenerate hearts of men

Bore sin and all the thorns of hell.

Happy, indeed, and sweet our pain,

However torn, however tost,

If, like the rose, our hearts retain

Some vestige of the heaven we've lost.

Where she upon this colder sphere

Found shelter first, she there abode;

Her native bowers, unseen were near,

And near her still Euphrates flowed--

Brilliantly flow'd; but, ah! how dim,

Compar'd to what its light had been;--

As if the fiery cherubim

Let pass the tide, but kept its sheen.

At first she liv'd and reigned alone,

No lily-maidens yet had birth;

No turban'd tulips round her throne

Bow'd with their foreheads to the earth.

No rival sisters had she yet--

She with the snowy forehead fringed

With blushes; nor the sweet brunette

Whose cheek the yellow sun has ting'd.

Nor all the harbingers of May,

Nor all the clustering joys of June:

Uncarpeted the bare earth lay,

Unhung the branches' gay festoon.

But Nature came in kindly mood,

And gave her kindred of her own,

Knowing full well it is not good

For man or flower to be alone.

Long in her happy court she dwelt,

In floral games and feasts of mirth,

Until her heart kind wishes felt

To share her joy with all the earth.

To go from longing land to land

A stateless queen, a welcome guest,

O'er hill and vale, by sea and strand,

From North to South, and East to West.

And thus it is that every year,

Ere Autumn dons his russet robe,

She calls her unseen charioteer,

And makes her progress through the globe.

First, sharing in the month-long feast--

"The Feast of Roses"--in whose light

And grateful joy, the first and least

Of all her subjects reunite.

She sends her heralds on before:

The bee rings out his bugle bold,

The daisy spreads her marbled floor,

The buttercup her cloth of gold.

The lark leaps up into the sky,

To watch her coming from afar;

The larger moon descends more nigh,

More lingering lags the morning star.

From out the villages and towns,

From all of mankind's mix'd abodes,

The people, by the lawns and downs,

Go meet her on the winding roads.

And some would bear her in their hands,

And some would press her to their breast,

And some would worship where she stands,

And some would claim her as their guest.

Her gracious smile dispels the gloom

Of many a love-sick girl and boy;

Her very presence in a room

Doth fill the languid air with joy.

Her breath is like a fragrant tune,

She is the soul of every spot;

Gives nature to the rich saloon,

And splendour to the peasant's cot.

Her mission is to calm and soothe,

And purely glad life's every stage;

Her garlands grace the brow of youth,

And hide the hollow lines of age.

But to the poet she belongs,

By immemorial ties of love;--

Herself a folded book of songs,

Dropp'd from the angel's hands above.

Then come and make his heart thy home,

For thee it opes, for thee it glows;--

Type of ideal beauty, come!

Wonder of Nature! queenly Rose!

THE BATH OF THE STREAMS.

Down unto the ocean,

Trembling with emotion,

Panting at the notion,

See the rivers run--

In the golden weather,

Tripping o'er the heather,

Laughing all together--

Madcaps every one.

Like a troop of girls

In their loosen'd curls,

See, the concourse whirls

Onward wild with glee;

List their tuneful tattle,

Hear their pretty prattle,

How they'll love to battle

With the assailing sea.

See, the winds pursue them,

See, the willows woo them

See, the lakelets view them

Wistfully afar,

With a wistful wonder

Down the green slopes under,

Wishing, too, to thunder

O'er their prison bar.

Wishing, too, to wander

By the sea-waves yonder,

There awhile to squander

All their silvery stores,

There awhile forgetting

All their vain regretting

When their foam went fretting

Round the rippling shores.

Round the rocky region,

Whence their prison'd legion,

Oft and oft besieging,

Vainly sought to break,

Vainly sought to throw them

O'er the vales below them,

Through the clefts that show them

Paths they dare not take.

But the swift streams speed them

In the might of freedom,

Down the paths that lead them

Joyously along.

Blinding green recesses

With their floating tresses,

Charming wildernesses

With their murmuring song.

Now the streams are gliding

With a sweet abiding--

Now the streams are hiding

'Mid the whispering reeds--

Now the streams outglancing

With a shy advancing

Naiad-like go dancing

Down the golden meads.

Down the golden meadows,

Chasing their own shadows--

Down the golden meadows,

Playing as they run:

Playing with the sedges,

By the water's edges,

Leaping o'er the ledges,

Glist'ning in the sun:

Streams and streamlets blending,

Each on each attending,

All together wending,

Seek the silver sands;

Like the sisters holding

With a fond enfolding--

Like to sisters holding

One another's hands.

Now with foreheads blushing

With a rapturous flushing--

Now the streams are rushing

In among the waves.

Now in shy confusion,

With a pale suffusion,

Seek the wild seclusion

Of sequestered caves.

All the summer hours

Hiding in the bowers,

Scattering silver showers

Out upon the strand;

O'er the pebbles crashing,

Through the ripples splashing,

Liquid pearl-wreaths dashing

From each other's hand.

By yon mossy boulder,

See an ivory shoulder,

Dazzling the beholder,

Rises o'er the blue;

But a moment's thinking,

Sends the Naiad sinking,

With a modest shrinking,

From the gazer's view.

Now the wave compresses

All their golden tresses--

Now their sea-green dresses

Float them o'er the tide;

Now with elf-locks dripping

From the brine they're sipping,

With a fairy tripping,

Down the green waves glide.

Some that scarce have tarried

By the shore are carried

Sea-ward to be married

To the glad gods there:

Triton's horn is playing,

Neptune's steeds are neighing,

Restless with delaying

For a bride so fair.

See at first the river

How its pale lips quiver,

How its white waves shiver

With a fond unrest;

List how low it sigheth,

See how swift it flieth,

Till at length it lieth

On the ocean's breast.

Such is Youth's admiring,

Such is Love's desiring,

Such is Hope's aspiring

For the higher goal;

Such is man's condition

Till in heaven's fruition

Ends the mystic mission

Of the eternal soul.

THE FLOWERS OF THE TROPICS.

"C'est ainsi qu'elle nature a mis, entre les tropiques, la plupart des

fleurs apparentes sur des arbres. J'y en ai vu bien peu dans les

prairies, mais beaucoup dans les forets. Dans ces pays, il faut lever

les yeux en haut pour y voir des fleurs; dans le notre, il faut les

baisser a terre."--SAINT PIERRE, "Etudes de la Nature."

In the soft sunny regions that circle the waist

Of the globe with a girdle of topaz and gold,

Which heave with the throbbings of life where they're placed,

And glow with the fire of the heart they enfold;

Where to live, where to breathe, seems a paradise dream--

A dream of some world more elysian than this--

Where, if Death and if Sin were away, it would seem

Not the foretaste alone, but the fulness of bliss.

Where all that can gladden the sense and the sight,

Fresh fruitage as cool and as crimson as even;

Where the richness and rankness of Nature unite

To build the frail walls of the Sybarite's heaven.

But, ah! should the heart feel the desolate dearth

Of some purer enjoyment to speed the bright hours,

In vain through the leafy luxuriance of earth

Looks the languid-lit eye for the freshness of flowers.

No, its glance must be turned from the earth to the sky,

From the clay-rooted grass to the heaven-branching trees;

And there, oh! enchantment for soul and for eye,

Hang blossoms so pure that an angel might seize.

Thus, when pleasure begins from its sweetness to cloy,

And the warm heart grows rank like a soil over ripe,

We must turn from the earth for some promise of joy,

And look up to heaven for a holier type.

In the climes of the North, which alternately shine,

Now warm with the sunbeam, now white with the snow,

And which, like the breast of the earth they entwine.

Grow chill with its chillness, or glow with its glow,

In those climes where the soul, on more vigorous wing,

Rises soaring to heaven in its rapturous flight,

And, led ever on by the radiance they fling,

Tracketh star after star through infinitude's night.

How oft doth the seer from his watch-tower on high.

Scan the depths of the heavens with his wonderful glass;

And, like Adam of old, when Earth's creatures went by,

Name the orbs and the sun-lighted spheres as they pass.

How often, when drooping, and weary, and worn,

With fire-throbbing temples and star-dazzled eyes,

Does he turn from his glass at the breaking of morn,

And exchanges for flowers all the wealth of the skies?

Ah! thus should we mingle the far and the near,

And, while striving to pierce what the Godhead conceals,

From the far heights of Science look down with a fear

To the lowliest truths the same Godhead reveals.

When the rich fruit of Joy glads the heart and the mouth,

Or the bold wing of Thought leads the daring soul forth;

Let us proudly look up as for flowers of the south,

Let us humbly look down as for flowers of the north.

THE YEAR-KING.

It is the last of all the days,

The day on which the Old Year dies.

Ah! yes, the fated hour is near;

I see upon his snow-white bier

Outstretched the weary wanderer lies,

And mark his dying gaze.

A thousand visions dark and fair,

Crowd on the old man's fading sight;

A thousand mingled memories throng

The old man's heart, still green and strong;

The heritage of wrong and right

He leaves unto his heir.

He thinks upon his budding hopes,

The day he stood the world's young king,

Upon his coronation morn,

When diamonds hung on every thorn,

And peeped the pearl flowers of the spring

Adown the emerald slopes.

He thinks upon his youthful pride,

When in his ermined cloak of snow,

Upon his war-horse, stout and staunch--

The cataract-crested avalanche--

He thundered on the rocks below,

With his warriors at his side.

From rock to rock, through cloven scalp,

By rivers rushing to the sea,

With thunderous sound his army wound

The heaven supporting hills around;

Like that the Man of Destiny

Led down the astonished Alp.

The bugles of the blast rang out,

The banners of the lightning swung,

The icy spear-points of the pine

Bristled along the advancing line,

And as the winds' 'reveille' rung,

Heavens! how the hills did shout.

Adown each slippery precipice

Rattled the loosen'd rocks, like balls

Shot from his booming thunder guns,

Whose smoke, effacing stars and suns,

Darkens the stifled heaven, and falls

Far off in arrowy showers of ice.

Ah! yes, he was a mighty king,

A mighty king, full flushed with youth;

He cared not then what ruin lay

Upon his desolating way;

Not his the cause of God or Truth,

But the brute lust of conquering.

Nought could resist his mighty will,

The green grass withered where he stood;

His ruthless hands were prompt to seize

Upon the tresses of the trees;

Then shrieked the maidens of the wood,

And the saplings of the hill.

Nought could resist his mighty will;

For in his ranks rode spectral Death;

The old expired through very fear;

And pined the young, when he came near;

The faintest flutter of his breath

Was sharp enough to kill.

Nought could resist his mighty will;

The flowers fell dead beneath his tread;

The streams of life, that through the plains

Throb night and day through crystal veins,

With feverish pulses frighten'd fled,

Or curdled, and grew still.

Nought could resist his mighty will;

On rafts of ice, blue-hued, like steel,

He crossed the broadest rivers o'er

Ah! me, and then was heard no more

The murmur of the peaceful wheel

That turned the peasant's mill.

But why the evil that attends

On War recall to further view?

Accurs`ed War!--the world too well

Knows what thou art--thou fiend of hell!

The heartless havoc of a few

For their own selfish ends!

Soon, soon the youthful conqueror

Felt moved, and bade the horrors cease;

Nature resumed its ancient sway,

Warm tears rolled down the cheeks of Day,

And Spring, the harbinger of peace

Proclaimed the fight was o'er.

Oh! what a change came o'er the world;

The winds, that cut like naked swords,

Shed balm upon the wounds they made;

And they who came the first to aid

The foray of grim Winter's hordes

The flag of truce unfurled.

Oh! how the song of joy, the sound

Of rapture thrills the leaguered camps

The tinkling showers like cymbals clash

Upon the late leaves of the ash,

And blossoms hang like festal lamps

On all the trees around.

And there is sunshine, sent to strew

God's cloth of gold, whereon may dance,

To music that harmonious moves,

The link`ed Graces and the Loves,

Making reality romance,

And rare romance even more than true.

The fields laughed out in dimpling flowers,

The streams' blue eyes flashed bright with smiles;

The pale-faced clouds turned rosy-red,

As they looked down from overhead,

Then fled o'er continents and isles,

To shed their happy tears in showers.

The youthful monarch's heart grew light

To find what joy good deeds can shed;

To nurse the orphan buds that bent

Over each turf-piled monument,

Wherein the parent flowers lay dead

Who perished in that fight.

And as he roamed from day to day,

Atoning thus to flower and tree,

Flinging his lavish gold around

In countless yellow flowers, he found,

By gladsome-weeping April's knee,

The modest maiden May.

Oh! she was young as angels are,

Ere the eternal youth they lead

Gives any clue to tell the hours

They've spent in heaven's elysian bowers;

Ere God before their eyes decreed

The birth-day of some beauteous star.

Oh! she was fair as are the leaves

Of pale white roses, when the light

Of sunset, through some trembling bough,

Kisses the queen-flower's blushing brow,

Nor leaves it red nor marble white,

But rosy-pale, like April eves.

Her eyes were like forget-me-nots,

Dropped in the silvery snowdrop's cup,

Or on the folded myrtle buds,

The azure violet of the woods;

Just as the thirsty sun drinks up

The dewy diamonds on the plots.

And her sweet breath was like the sighs

Breathed by a babe of youth and love;

When all the fragrance of the south

From the cleft cherry of its mouth,

Meets the fond lips that from above

Stoop to caress its slumbering eyes.

He took the maiden by the hand,

And led her in her simple gown

Unto a hamlet's peaceful scene,

Upraised her standard on the green;

And crowned her with a rosy crown

The beauteous Queen of all the land.

And happy was the maiden's reign--

For peace, and mirth, and twin-born love

Came forth from out men's hearts that day,

Their gladsome fealty to pay;

And there was music in the grove,

And dancing on the plain.

And Labour carolled at his task,

Like the blithe bird that sings and builds

His happy household 'mid the leaves;

And now the fibrous twig he weaves,

And now he sings to her who gilds

The sole horizon he doth ask.

And Sickness half forgot its pain,

And Sorrow half forgot its grief;

And Eld forgot that it was old,

As if to show the age of gold

Was not the poet's fond belief,

But every year comes back again.

The Year-King passed along his way:

Rejoiced, rewarded, and content;

He passed to distant lands and new;

For other tasks he had to do;

But wheresoe'er the wanderer went,

He ne'er forgot his darling May.

He sent her stems of living gold

From the rich plains of western lands,

And purple-gushing grapes from vines

Born of the amorous sun that shines

Where Tagus rolls its golden sands,

Or Guadalete old.

And citrons from Firenze's fields,

And golden apples from the isles

That gladden the bright southern seas,

True home of the Hesperides:

Which now no dragon guards, but smiles,

The bounteous mother, as she yields.

And then the king grew old like Lear--

His blood waxed chill, his beard grew gray;

He changed his sceptre for a staff:

And as the thoughtless children laugh

To see him totter on his way,

He knew his destined hour was near.

And soon it came; and here he strives,

Outstretched upon his snow-white bier,

To reconcile the dread account--

How stands the balance, what the amount;

As we shall do with trembling fear

When our last hour arrives.

Come, let us kneel around his bed,

And pray unto his God and ours

For mercy on his servant here:

Oh, God be with the dying year!

And God be with the happy hours

That died before their sire lay dead!

And as the bells commingling ring

The New Year in, the Old Year out,

Muffled and sad, and now in peals

With which the quivering belfry reels,

Grateful and hopeful be the shout,

The King is dead!--Long live the King!

THE AWAKING.

A lady came to a snow-white bier,

Where a youth lay pale and dead:

She took the veil from her widowed head,

And, bending low, in his ear she said:

"Awaken! for I am here."

She pass'd with a smile to a wild wood near,

Where the boughs were barren and bare;

She tapp'd on the bark with her fingers fair,

And call'd to the leaves that were buried there:

"Awaken! for I am here."

The birds beheld her without a fear,

As she walk'd through the dank-moss'd dells;

She breathed on their downy citadels,

And whisper'd the young in their ivory shells:

"Awaken! for I am here."

On the graves of the flowers she dropp'd a tear,

But with hope and with joy, like us;

And even as the Lord to Lazarus,

She call'd to the slumbering sweet flowers thus:

"Awaken! for I am here."

To the lilies that lay in the silver mere,

To the reeds by the golden pond;

To the moss by the rounded marge beyond,

She spoke with her voice so soft and fond:

"Awaken! for I am here."

The violet peep'd, with its blue eye clear,

From under its own gravestone;

For the blessed tidings around had flown,

And before she spoke the impulse was known:

"Awaken! for I am here."

The pale grass lay with its long looks sere

On the breast of the open plain;

She loosened the matted hair of the slain,

And cried, as she filled each juicy vein:

"Awaken! for I am here."

The rush rose up with its pointed spear

The flag, with its falchion broad;

The dock uplifted its shield unawed,

As her voice rung over the quickening sod:

"Awaken! for I am here."

The red blood ran through the clover near,

And the heath on the hills o'erhead;

The daisy's fingers were tipp'd with red,

As she started to life, when the lady said:

"Awaken! for I am here."

And the young Year rose from his snow-white bier,

And the flowers from their green retreat;

And they came and knelt at the lady's feet,

Saying all, with their mingled voices sweet:

"O lady! behold us here."

THE RESURRECTION.

The day of wintry wrath is o'er,

The whirlwind and the storm have pass'd,

The whiten'd ashes of the snow

Enwrap the ruined world no more;

Nor keenly from the orient blow

The venom'd hissings of the blast.

The frozen tear-drops of despair

Have melted from the trembling thorn;

Hope plumes unseen her radiant wing,

And lo! amid the expectant air,

The trumpet of the angel Spring

Proclaims the resurrection morn.

Oh! what a wave of gladsome sound

Runs rippling round the shores of space,

As the requicken'd earth upheaves

The swelling bosom of the ground,

And Death's cold pallor, startled, leaves

The deepening roses of her face.

Up from their graves the dead arise--

The dead and buried flowers of spring;--

Up from their graves in glad amaze,

Once more to view the long-lost skies,

Resplendent with the dazzling rays

Of their great coming Lord and King.