Chapter II: Part 2

Ye have gold for the follies of fashion, And gold for its tinsel glare, But none for the wild, sobbing passion Wrung from the lips of despair. False Shepherds and Guides are ye, For the heart in each bosom is cold As the ice on a frozen sea; And your trappings of velvet and gold Lie heavy and close as a pall, When the steps of the bearers fall On a grave, with measured tread; For ye seem to live--but are dead.

Ye are dead!--ye are dead! stone by stone The temple is crumbling down; It will fall with a crash of doom, For the night deepens dark in its gloom. But ye look on with vacant stare, Like men lying still in the tomb. Stand forth! face the sun, if ye dare, With your cold eyes unwet by a tear, For your Country laid low on your bier, And say--have ye stretched forth a hand To raise up our desolate Land?

She dies--but ye flourish and grow In the midst of the deadly maze: Like the palm springing heavenward?--No, But like weeds in the churchyard fed By the vapours of death below, Breathing round you a poisonous haze. Go!--go! True life is not so-- For decay lies beneath your tread, And the staff in your hand is a reed-- Too weak for your Country's need; For you seem to live--but are dead.

Ye are dead!--ye are dead! Fling the clay On the noble names--noble no more; Leave the sword in the sheath to rust; Let the banners be trailed in the dust; And the memory perish away Of the dead, who are dead evermore; Blot them out from the book writ in gold. Noble neither in deed nor in soul, Are ye worthy to stand in the roll Of the glorified heroes of old?

Has Ireland need of such sons?
Floating down with a silken sail,
On the crimson tide of her life, that runs
With a mournful, ceaseless wail,
Like rain pouring down from the eaves.
And ye laugh when the strangers deride
Her trials, the saddest and sorest,
And plunge the sword deep in her side;
And no kindly heart sighs or grieves
For her branches, all bare as a forest,
When the autumn wind scatters the leaves.

Laugh low with your perfumed breath, For the air is heavy with death. But ye hear not the gliding feet Of the Future, that stands at your door; For the roses lie heavy and sweet, And too thick on your marble floor, And the dead soul is dead to his call. And your eyes are heavy with wine; Ye see not the letters of flame, Traced by a hand divine-- The writing of God on the wall-- "Ye are weighed, and found wanting"--Oh, shame! Your life is a gilded lie; And the wide world that doom has read, With a shudder and chill of dread; For the judgment of God is nigh, And the universe echoes the cry-- You've a name that ye live--but are +DEAD+.

WORK WHILE IT IS CALLED TO-DAY.

"No man hath hired us"--strong hands drooping,
Listless, falling in idleness down;
Men in the silent market-place grouping
Round Christ's cross of silent stone.
"No man hath hired us"--pale hands twining,
Stalwart forms bowed down to sue.
"The red dawn is passed, the noon is shining,
But no man hath given us work to do."

Then a voice pealed down from the heights of Heaven,
Men, it said, of the Irish soil!
I gave you a land as a Garden of Eden,
Where you and your sons should till and toil;
I set your throne by the glorious waters,
Where ocean flung round you her mighty bands,
That your sails, like those of your Tyrian fathers,
Might sweep the shores of a hundred lands.

Power I gave to the hands of your leaders,
Wisdom I gave to the lips of the wise,
And your children grew as the stately cedars,
That shadowed the rivers of Paradise.
What have ye done with my land of beauty--
Has the spoiler bereft her of robe and crown?
Have my people failed in a people's duty?
Has the wild boar trampled my vineyard down?

True, they answered, faint in replying--
Our vines are rent by the wild boar's tusks;
The corn on our golden slopes is lying,
But our children feed on the remnant husks.
Our strong men lavish their blood for others;
Our prophets and wise men are heard no more;
Our young men give a last kiss to their mothers,
Then sail away for a foreign shore.

From wooded valleys and mountain gorges,
Emerald meadow and purple glen,
Across the foam of the wild sea surges,
They flee away like exiled men.
Yet, the chant we hear of the new Evangels,
Rising like incense from earth's green sod;
We--we alone, before worshipping Angels,
Idly stand in the Garden of God.

Then the Lord came down from the heights of Heaven,
Came down that garden fair to view,
Where the weary men waited from morn till even,
For some one to give them work to do.
Ye have sinned, He said, and the angel lustre
Darkened slowly as summer clouds may;
Weeds are growing where fruit should cluster,
Yet, ye stand idle all the day.

Have ye trod in the furrows, and worked as truly
As men who knew they should reap as they sow?
Have ye flung in the seed and watched it duly,
Day and night, lest the tares should grow?
Have ye tended the vine my hand hath planted,
Pruned and guided its tendrils fair;
Ready with life-blood, if it were wanted,
To strengthen the fruit its branches bear?

Have ye striven in earnest, working solely
To guard my flock in their native fold?
Are your hands as pure, and your hearts as holy,
As the saints who walk in the City of Gold?
Go! work in my vineyard, let none deceive ye,
Each for himself his work must do;
And whatever is right shall my Angels give ye,
The work and the workman shall have their due.--

Who knoweth the times of the new dispensations?
Go on in faith, and the light will come;
The last may yet be the first amongst nations,
Wait till the end for the final doom.
The last may be first! Shall our Country's glory
Ever flash light on the path we have trod?
Who knows?--who knows?--for our future story
Lies hid in the great sealed Book of God.

TO-DAY!

I.

Has the line of the Patriots ended,
The race of the heroes failed,
That the bow of the mighty, unbended,
Falls slack from the hands of the quailed?
Or do graves lie too thick in the grass
For the chariot of Progress to pass?

II.

Did the men of the past ever falter?
The stainless in name and fame.
They flung life's best gifts on the altar
To kindle the sacrifice flame,
Till it rose like a pillar of light
Leading up from Egyptian night.

III.

Oh! hearts all aflame, with the daring
Of youth leaping forth into life!
Have ye courage to lift up, unfearing,
The banner fallen low in the strife,
From hands faint through life's deepest loss,
And bleeding from nails of the cross?

IV.

Can ye work on as they worked--unaided,
When all but honour seemed lost?
And give to your Country, as they did,
All, without counting the cost?
For the children have risen since then
Up to the height of men.

V.

Now, swear by those pale martyr-faces,
All worn by the furrows of tears,
By the lost youth no morrow replaces,
By all their long-wasted years,
By the fires trod out on each hearth,
When the Exiles were driven forth;

VI.

By the young lives so vainly given,
By the raven hair blanched to grey,
By the strong spirits crushed and riven,
By the noble aims faded away,
By their brows, as the brows of a king,
Crowned by the circlet of suffering--

VII.

To strive as they strove, yet retrieving
The cause from all shadow of blame,
In the Congress of Peoples achieving
A place for our nation and name;
Not by war between brothers in blood,
But by glory made perfect through good.

VIII.

We are blind, not discerning the promise,
'Tis the sword of the Spirit that kills;
Give us Light, and the fetters fall from us,
For the strong soul is free when it wills.
Not our wrongs but our sins make the cloud
That darkens the land like a shroud.

IX.

With this sword like an Archangel's gleaming,
Go war against Evil and Sin,
'Gainst the falsehood, and meanness, and seeming
That stifle the true life within.
Your bonds are the bonds of the soul,
Strike them off, and you spring to the goal!

X.

O men who have passed through the furnace,
Assayed like the gold, and as pure!
By your strength can the weakest gain firmness
The strongest may learn to endure,
When once they have chosen their part,
Though the sword may drive home to each heart.

XI.

O Martyrs! The scorners may trample
On the broken hearts strewed in their path;
But the young race, all flushed by example,
Will awake to the duties it hath,
And re-kindle your own torch of Truth
With the passionate splendours of youth!

A REMONSTRANCE,

ADDRESSED TO D. FLORENCE M'CARTHY, M.R.I.A.[3]

Stand on the heights, O Poet! nor come down Amid the wise old serpents, coiled around The Tree of Knowledge in Academies. The Poet's place is by the Tree of Life, Whose fruit turns men to Gods, and makes them live, Not seeking buried treasure in the tombs. Leave the dim records of a by-gone age To those great Archivists, who flash the torch Of Truth along Time's mouldering records, Illuminating all the fading Past, Like golden letters on an ancient scroll. The Poet soars with eagles, breathes pure ether, Basks in the light that suns the mountain peak, And sings, from spirit altitudes, such strains, That all the toilers in life's rugged furrows Are forced, for once, to lift the bow'd-down head, And look on Heaven. Flashes from Poet's words Electric light, strong, swift, and sudden, like The clash of thunder-clouds, by which men read God's writing legibly on human hearts.

O Poet-Prophets! God hath sent ye forth With lips made consecrate by altar fire, To guide the Future, not to tread the Past; To chaunt, in glorious music, man's great hymn, The watchword of humanity--Advance! Advance in Wisdom, Nobleness, and Truth, High aims, high purposes, and self-control, Which is self-reverence, knowing we shall stand With crownéd angels before God's great throne The Poet nerves the arm to do great deeds, Inspires great thoughts, flings o'er the tears of life The rainbow arch, to save us from despair; Quickens the stagnant energies to act, Bears the advancing banner of the age, Full in the van of all Humanity; And, with a strength, God-given, rolls the stone, As angels may, from off the Sepulchre Where souls lie bound, bidding them rise and live.

O Poet! preach this Gospel once again-- True Life, true Liberty, God's gifts to man; Freedom from servile aims and selfish ends, That swathe and bind the kingly spirit down, Like Egypt's grave-clothes on the royal dead; Scatter the golden grain of lofty thoughts From which spring hero-deeds--that so, in truth, Our Future may be nobler than our Past, In all that makes a nation's life divine-- This is the Poet's mission, therefore--+THINE+.

FRANCE IN '93.

I.

Hark! the onward heavy tread-- Hark! the voices rude-- 'Tis the famished cry for Bread From a wildered multitude. They come! They come! Point the cannon--roll the drum; Thousands wail and weep with hunger-- Faster let your soldiers number. Sword, and gun, and bayonet A famished people's cries have met.

II.

Hark! the onward heavy tread-- Hark! the voices rude-- 'Tis the famished cry for Bread From an armed multitude. They come! They come! Not with meek submission's hum. Bloody trophy they have won, Ghastly glares it in the sun-- Gory head on lifted pike. Ha! they weep not now, but strike.

III.

Ye, the deaf ones to their cries-- Ye, who scorned their agonies-- 'Tis no longer prayers for bread Shriek in your ears the famishéd; But wildly, fiercely, peal on peal, Resoundeth--Down with the Bastile! Can ye tame a people now? Try them--flatter, promise, vow, Swear their wrongs shall be redressed-- But patience--time will do the rest; Swear they shall one day be fed-- Hark! the People--Dead for Dead!

IV.

Calculating statesmen, quail; Proud aristocrat, grow pale; Savage sounds that deathly song: Down with tyrants! Down with wrong! Blindly now they wreak revenge-- How rudely do a mob avenge!

What! coronetted Prince or Peer, Will not the base-born slavelings fear Sooth, their cry is somewhat stern: _Aristocrats, à la Lanterne!_ Ghastly fruit their lances bear-- Noble heads with streaming hair; Diadem and kingly crown Strike the famine-stricken down. Now, the People's work is done-- On they stride o'er prostrate throne; Royal blood of King and Queen Streameth from the guillotine; Wildly on the people goeth, Reaping what the noble soweth. Little dreamed he, prince or peer, Of who should be his heritor. Hunger now, at last, is sated In halls where once it wailed and waited; Wild Justice fiercely rives the laws Which failed to right a people's cause. On that human ocean floweth, Whither stops it no one knoweth-- Surge the wild waves in their strength Against all chartered rights at length-- Throne, and King, and Noble fall; But the People--they hold Carnival!

THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS.

+A SPANISH BALLAD, 1492.+

I.

Ho! Spaniards! rise for Liberty--your country on ye calls, To fight to-day, in proud array, before Granáda's walls; A proud array is here to-day, full fifty thousand strong, Of Fantassins and Cavaliers Gonzalo leads along.

II.

From Leon to Granáda--from Corunna to Seville, Gather, Spaniards, gather, by the banks of the Xenil! Eight hundred years of blood and tears beneath a foreign sway-- Eight hundred years of blood and tears must be avenged to-day.

III.

Think of your ancient glory, Oh ye lions of León! And how in ancient story your great lion name was won; Think of Zamora's conquest field, and royal Douro's flood-- How ye bridged with Moslem corses, and swam it in their blood.

IV.

And, mountaineers, have ye no tears to be avenged to-day-- Asturians, and Gallicians, and wild dwellers by Vizcày? Ye, the unconquered remnant of the brave old Celtic race-- For ne'er could Roman, Goth, or Moor, your nationhood efface.

V.

Ye, too, proud Gothic nobles! by your memories as men, Will never fail, or shrink, or quail to meet the Saracen; Ye, 'fore whose conquering arm were the bravest forced to yield, Who smote the Suevi in their tent--the Romans in the field.

VI.

Now, now, oh, shame and misery! a stranger rules your lands!-- A stranger's spoil is your native soil--a stranger's voice commands; Ye, princes once and chieftains, ere the false foe crossed the flood, Now, drawers of their water and base hewers of their wood!

VII.

And, Adalusian Brothers, of the old Vandalic race, Will ye alone 'midst Spaniards, be proud of your disgrace? They flatter, fawn, but hate you, these proud foes to whom you've sold Your Liberty for mocking smiles--your country for their gold.

VIII.

They own your stately palaces, they desecrate your shrines, They trample on your vineyards, yet ye stoop to drink their wines; Ye wear their silk, their gold, their gems, and to their feasts ye run; Now shame for ye, my brothers, is it thus that Freedom's won?

IX.

Back to your wild sierras, better die there in your homes Than cringingly bow low beneath your masters' haughty domes; Their Syrian silks, their Indiam gems, go--fling them to the sea, But keep their Syrian steel, for it will help to set us free.

X.

Oh! by your ancient memories, rise Prince, and Peer, and Chief-- Smite down the foe that wrought our woe at Gebel el Taríf. The robber horde awaits your sword--draw, Spaniards! for your land! The crown ye lost by Roderic, regain it by Fernand!

XI.

No coward fears--eight hundred years ye've lived as slaves, not men; But swords makes bright each chartered right--ye'll have your own again. Brave hearts and leal of proud Castile--Revenge, on Mauritania! Rend earth and sky with your gathering cry: Charge! Cierra Espana!

XII.

As tempests sweep the surging deep, thus on the Moorish ranks Dashes the Spanish chivalry; they charge on van and flanks. From Calpe's rock the thunder-shock re-echoes o'er the main-- Now, God and Santiago, for our Liberty and Spain!

XIII.

Little they think of mercy, these slaves of eight hundred years; Never they spare a foeman, these hold true Iberian spears. Crescènted hosts your taunting boasts this day find answer meet, For the light of Heaven is darkened by the dust of your flying feet.

XIV.

Granàda falls! From the Castle walls tear down the Alien's rag-- On turret and Alcàzar, comrades, up with our ancient flag! It floats from the proud Alhambra! Thank God, we've lived to see Our ancient standard waving once again above the Free!

XV.

Pass out, ye weeping people; aye, weep--for never more Shall ye gather in Granàda by the sound of Atambór; For, by the rood, ye Moslem brood, we swore it in Castile, Never again should Spain be ruled by foreign Alquazil.

XVI.

O Moorish King! by suffering thou has earned a name to-day[4]-- But we give thee life, Abdallah; pass onwards on thy way. Accursed race, the foul disgrace thy rule hath brought on Spain, Is cleansed away in blood to-day--we drive thee 'cross the main.

XVII.

By Elvira's gate he goeth, all solemnly and slow-- One last look at Granàda, ere they pass that gate of woe. "Oh, better far thy scimitar had laid thee with the dead, Than weep for what thou could'st not keep"--the proud Zoràya said.[5]

XVIII.

Allah, Allah Hu Akbar! what sorrow like my sorrow? Thus he goeth weeping by the way of Alpujarras; Allah, Allah Hu Akbar! on his tomb is written down-- The King who lost a Kingdom when great Spain regained her Crown.

WHO WILL SHOW US ANY GOOD?

I.

Beautiful Ireland! Who will preach to thee?
Souls are waiting for lips to vow;
And outstretched hands, that fain would reach to thee,
Yearn to help, if they knew but how,
To lift the thorn-wreath off thy brow.

II.

Passionate dreamers have fought and died for thee,
Poets poured forth their lava song;
But dreamer and poet have failed as a guide for thee--
Still are unriven the chains of wrong.

III.

Suffering Ireland! Martyr-Nation!
Blind with tears thick as mountain mist;
Can none amidst all the new generation
Change them to glory, as hills sun-kissed
Flash lights of opal and amethyst?

IV.

Welcome a Hero! A man to lead for us,
Sifting true men from chaff and weeds;
Daring and doing as those who, indeed, for us.
Proved their zeal by their life and deeds.

V.

Desolate Ireland! Saddest of mothers,
Waits and weeps in her island home;
But the Western Land--has she help for others
Who feeds her eagles on blood of brothers?
Not with cannon or roll of drum,
Or foreign flag can our triumph come.

VI.

Why seek aid from the arm of a stranger?
Trust thy sons, O Mother! for good;
Braver can none be in hours of danger,
Proudly claiming thy rights withstood.

VII.

Then, Ireland! wake from thy vain despairing!
Grand the uses of life may be;
Heights can be reached by heroic daring,
Crowns are won by the brave and free,
And Nations create their own destiny.

VIII.

But, Time and the hour fleet fast unbidden,
A turbid stream over golden sands;
And too often the gold is scattered or hidden,
While we stand by with listless hands.

IX.

Then seize the least grain as it glistens and passes,
Swift and sure is that river's flight:
The glory of morning the bright wave glasses,
But the gold and glory soon fade from sight,
And noon-tide splendours will change to night.

X.

Ah! life is too brief for languor or quarrel,
Second by second the dead drop down;
And souls, all eager to strive for the laurel,
Faint and fall ere they win the crown.

XI.

Ireland rests mid the rush of progression,
As a frozen ship in a frozen sea;
And the changeless stillness of life's stagnation,
Is worse than the wildest waves could be,
Rending the rocks eternally.

XII.

Then, trumpet-tongued, to a people sleeping,
Who will speak with magic command,
Bidding them rise--these dead men, keeping
Watch by the dead in a silent land?

XIII.

Grandly, solemnly, earnestly preaching,
Man's great gospel of Truth and light;
With lips like saints' in their love beseeching,
Hands as strong as a prophet's to smite
The foes to Humanity's sacred right.

XIV.

Earth is thrilling with new aspirations,
Rending the fetters that bar and ban;
But we alone of the Christian nations
Fall to the rear in the march of Man.

XV.

Alas! can I help? but a nameless singer--
Weak the words of a woman to save;
We wait the advent of some light-bringer,
Strong to roll the stone from the grave,
And summon to life the death-bound slave.

XVI.

Down from heights of the Infinite drifting,
Raising the prisoned soul from gloom;
Like the white angels of God uplifting
Seal and stone from the Saviour's tomb.

XVII.

Yet, hear me now, for a Nation pleading;
Strike! but with swords yet keener than steel;
Flash on the path the new Age is treading,
As sparks from grooves of the iron wheel,
In star-flames its onward march reveal.

XVIII.

Work by the shore where our broad ocean rages,
Bridging it over by wraiths of steam;
Linking two worlds by a chain that sages
Forged in the heat of a science dream.

XIX.

For Nature has stamped us with brand immortal,
Highway of nations our Land must be:
We hold the keys of the Old-world portal,
We guard the pass of the Western Sea--
Ireland, sole in her majesty!

XX.

Work! there is work for the thinker and doer,
And glory for all when the goal is won;
So we are true to our Country, or truer
Than Planets are to the central Sun.

XXI.

Call from the hills our own Irish Eagle,
Spread its plumes on the "The Green" of old;
With a sunrise blaze, as a mantle regal,
Turning the dusk-brown wings to gold--
Symbol and flag be it then unrolled!

XXII.

Face Heaven's light with as proud a daring,
Tread the heights with a step as grand,
Breast the wild storm with brave hearts unfearing
As kings might do for their rightful land.

XXIII.

Irish daring by land and by river,
Irish wealth from mountain and mine,
Irish courage so strong to deliver,
Irish love as strong to combine
Separate chords in one strain divine;

XXIV.

These are the forces of conquering power,
Chains to sever, if slaves we be;
Then strike in your might, O Men of the hour!
And Ireland springs on the path of the free!

A LAMENT FOR THE POTATO.

A.D. 1739.

(FROM THE IRISH).

There is woe, there is clamour, in our desolated land, And wailing lamentation from a famine-stricken band; And weeping are the multitudes in sorrow and despair, For the green fields of Munster lying desolate and bare.

Woe for Lorc's[6] ancient kingdom, sunk in slavery and grief; Plundered, ruined, are our gentry, our people, and their Chief; For the harvest lieth scattered, more worth to us than gold, All the kindly food that nourished both the young and the old.

Well I mind me of the cosherings, where princes might dine, And we drank until nightfall the best seven sorts of wine; Yet was ever the Potato our old, familiar dish, And the best of all sauces with the beeves and the fish.

But the harp now is silent, no one careth for the sound; No flowers, no sweet honey, and no beauty can be found; Not a bird its music thrilling through the leaves of the wood, Nought but weeping and hands wringing in despair for our food.

And the Heavens, all in darkness, seem lamenting our doom, No brightness in the sunlight, not a ray to pierce the gloom; The cataract comes rushing with a fearful deepened roar, And ocean bursts its boundaries, dashing wildly on the shore.

Yet, in misery and want, we have one protecting man, Kindly Barry, of Fitzstephen's old hospitable clan; By mount and river working deeds of charity and grace: Blessings ever on our champion, best hero of his race!

Save us, God! In Thy mercy bend to hear the people's cry, From the famine-stricken fields, rising bitterly on high; Let the mourning and the clamour cease in Lorc's ancient land, And shield us in the death-hour by Thy strong, protecting hand![7]

HAVE WE DONE WELL FOR IRELAND?

O country, writhing in thy chain With fierce, wild efforts to be free, Not seeing that with every strain The bonds close firmer over thee; Or grasping blindly in thy hate The temple pillars of the State, To hurl them down on friend and foe, Crushed in one common overthrow-- Can none of all thy Poet band Preach nobler aims, loved Ireland?

As David drove with magic chords The Evil Spirit back to night; As Moses by his mighty words Led Egypt's bondmen up to light; Hast thou no Poet, strong to calm Thy troubled soul with holy psalm? Or trusted Chief, who, safely on Across the fatal Rubicon, Could lead thee with pure heart and hand To Freedom--my own Ireland?

By those doomed men, in dull despair Slow wasting in a dungeon's gloom; By all youth's fiery heart can dare Quenched in the prison's living tomb-- By the corroding felon chain, That tortures with Promethean pain Of vultures gnawing at the core Of their lost lives for evermore-- I ask you, People of our Land, Have ye done well for Ireland?

By History traced on dungeon walls, By scaffolds, chains, and exiles' tears, Slow marking, as the shadow falls, The mournful sequence of the years; By genius crushed and progress barred, By noble aspirations marred, Till with a smouldering fire's life They burn in deadly hate and strife-- I ask you, Rulers of our Land, Have ye done well for Ireland?

O Men! these men are brothers too, Tho' frenzied by a fatal dream, Their living souls were meant to do Some noble work in God's great scheme, Perchance to hew down, branch and root, The tree that bore such bitter fruit; But, left unguided in the Right, They grope out blindly in the night Of their dark passions; striking down Their Country's proud hopes with their own.

But now, ye say, the Land hath rest-- Aye, with the death weights on her eyes; And fettered arms across her breast, And mail'd hands stifling down her cries. So rests a corpse within the grave O'er which the charnal grasses wave. Oh, better far some kindly word To stay the vengeance-lifted sword, Or Love, with queenly, outstretched hand, To soothe thee--fated Ireland!

WILLIAM CARLETON.

+DIED, JANUARY 30TH, 1869.+

Our land has lost a glory! Never more,
Tho' years roll on, can Ireland hope to see
Another Carleton, cradled in the lore
Of our loved Country's rich humanity.
The weird traditions, the old, plaintive strain,
The murmured legends of a vengeful past,
When a down-trodden people strove in vain
To rend the fetters centuries made fast;

These, with the song and dance and tender tale,
Linked to our ancient music, have swept on
And died in far-off echoes, like the wail
Of Israel's broken Harps in Babylon.
No hand like his can wake them now, for he
Sprang from amidst the people: bathed his soul
In their strong passions, stormy as the sea,
And wild as skies before the thunder-roll.

Yet, was he gentle; with divinest art
And tears that shook his nature over much,
He struck the key-note of a people's heart,
And all the nation answered to his touch,
Even as he swayed them, giving smiles for gloom,
And childlike tenderness for hate that kills--
As rain clouds threat'ning with a weight of doom
Flash sudden, silver light upon the hills.

But, he had faults--men said. Oh, fling them back,
These cold deductions, marring praise with blame;
When earthquakes rend the rocks they leave a track
For central fires issuing forth in flame;
And by the passionate heat of gifted minds
The ruddest stones are crystallised to gems
Of glorious worth, such as a poet binds
Upon his brow, right royal diadems!

Like the great image of the Monarch's dream,
Genius lifts up on high the head of gold,
And cleaves with iron limbs Time's mighty stream,
Tho' all too deep the feet may press earth's mould.
Yet, by his gifts made dedicate to God
In noblest teachings of each gentle grace,
Through every land that Irishmen have trod
We claim for him the homage of our race.

With pen of light he drew great pictures when
Nothing but scorn was ours; and without fear
He flung them down before the face of men,
Saying, in words the whole world paused to hear:
So brave, so pure, so noble, grand, and true
Is this, our Irish People. Thus he gave
His fame to build our glory, and undo
The taunts of ages,--strong to lift and save.

So, with a nation's gratitude we vow
In every Irish heart a shrine shall be
To The Great Peasant, on whose deathless brow
Rests the star-crown of immortality.
The kings of mind, unlike the kings of earth,
Can bear their honours with them to illume
The grave's dark vault; so Carleton passes forth,
As through triumpal arches, to the tomb!

THE NEW PATH.

I.

We stand in the light of a dawning day,
With its glory creation flushing;
And the life-currents up from the pris'ning clay
Through the world's great heart are rushing.
While from peak to peak of the spirit land
A voice unto voice is calling:
The night is over, the day is at hand,
And the fetters of earth are falling!

II.

Yet, faces are pale with a mystic fear
Of the strife and trouble looming;
And we feel that mighty changes are near,
Tho' the Lord delayeth his coming.
For the rent flags hang from each broken mast,
And down in the ocean's surges
The shattered wreck of a foundering Past
Sinks mid the night wind's dirges.

III.

But the world goes thundering on to the light,
Unheeding our vain presages;
And nations are cleaving a path to Right
Through the mouldering dust of ages.
Are we, then, to rest in a chill despair,
Unmoved by these new elations;
Nor carry the flag of our Island fair
In the onward march of nations?

IV.

Shall our hands be folded in slumber, when
The bonds and the chains are shattered;
As stony and still as enchanted men,
In a cave of darkness fettered?
The cave may be dark, but we'll flash bright gleams
Of the morning's radiance on it,
And tread the New Path, tho' the noontide beams,
As yet, fall faintly upon it.

V.

For souls are around us, with gifts divine,
Unknown and neglected dying;
Like the precious ore in a hidden mine,
Unworked and as useless lying.
We summon them forth to the banded war,
The sword of the Spirit using,
To come with their forces from near and far,
New strength with our strength infusing.

VI.

Let each bear a torch with the foremost bands,
Through the Future's dark outgoing;
Or stand by the helm, mid the shoals and sands
Of the river of life fast flowing.
Or as guides on the hills, with a bugle note,
Let us warn the mountain ranger
Of the chasms that cross and the mists that float
O'er his upward path of danger.

VII.

For the chasms are deep, and the river is strong
And the tempest is wildly waking;
We have need of brave hands to guide us along
The path which the Age is taking.
With our gold and pearls let us build the State;
Faith, courage, and tender pity
Are the gems that shine on the golden gate
Of the Angels' Heavenly city.

VIII.

O People! so richly endowed with all
The splendours of spirit power,
With the poet's gift and the minstrel-soul,
And the orator's glorious dower;
Are hearts not amongst us, or lips to vow,
With patriot fervour breathing,
To crown with their lustre no alien brow
While the thorn our own is wreathing.

IX.

Ev'n lovelier gifts on our lowly poor,
Kind Nature lavishly showers,
As the gold rain falls on the cottage door,
Of the glowing laburnam flowers;
The deathless love for their Country and God
Undimmed through the ages keeping,
Tho' the fairest harvests that grew on our sod
Were left for the strangers' reaping.

X.

The gentle grace that to commonest words
Gives a rare and tender beauty;
With the zeal that would face a thousand swords
For their Country, home and duty.
Still breathing the prayer for their Motherland
Her wrongs and her sorrows taught them;
Tho' the scaffold's doom, or the felon-brand,
Were the only gifts she brought them.

XI.

But we, let us bring her--as eastern kings,
At the foot of Christ low kneeling--
The gold that symbols our costliest things,
And myrrh for the spirit's healing
Oh, Brothers! be with us, our aim is high,
The highest of man's vocation:
With these priceless jewels, that round us lie,
To build up a noble Nation.

O'CONNELL,

HIBERNIÆ LIBERATOR AD LIMINA APOSTOLORUM PERGENS
GENOÆ OBDORMIVIT.

Crowned with a liberated people's love, Crowned by the Nations with eternal fame, His great heart burning still with patriot-fire, Tho' Death's pale shadow rested on his brow, Forth went the mighty Chief from his loved Land, 'Mid the hushed reverence paid to dying Kings, On his last pilgrimage; yearning to find rest For the o'erwearied hero-heart and brain, After great trials pass'd and triumphs won, Within the Temple-City of the World. But, faint with combats of a glorious life, Tho' Freedom's hymns still murmured on his lips, And his dim eyes still tracked the western Sun Would rise on Ireland, but no more for him, Seeking the gates of God's great Church on earth, He found the gates of Heaven, and entered in. There Angels met him with the conqueror's Palm, And passing from the portal to the Throne, Circled with golden glitter of their wings, God crowned him Victor for his work well done!

ASPIRATIONS.

Oh! for pinions to bear me sunward, Ever and ever higher and onward; With a glance of pride, and a wing of might, Cleaving a path through the starry skies, As the soul of a poet that heavenward flies, Daring the depths of the Infinite. Soaring and singing, still upward aspire, Trailing a path through the crimson fire, Bathing in oceans of purple and gold, Treading the glory that men behold, Like far-off fields of Elysian light, Where angels walk in radiance bright; And never to rest till the goal is won, And I furl my wings at the blazing sun-- I alone, the Conquering One!

Then, said Love, I will lend thee mine; And with strange enchantments, and many a sign, He bound on me the wings divine. Onward, onward--higher, higher, Seemed to bear me those wings of fire; Over the earth, the clouds, the moon, Till the portals of Heaven glittered soon. But, ah! too near the Sun of Truth I passed, in the vain, proud spirit of youth; And Love's cement could not, tho' strong, Retain the glowing pinions on; And they fell from my heart, and left it bare; And so I sank down weeping there, Into the fathomless sea of despair.

Long I lay in depth of dole, Till a Voice like a trumpet stirred my soul; My wings, it said, will bear thee far, Over yon highest glittering star. Glorious thoughts of high emprize, These will lift thee to the skies, Where the goal of glory lies. Trust thy own undaunted will, Let ambition's spirit fill All thy being, till no height Seems too distant or too bright, Through the stars of upper air, For a soul like thine to dare.

Then upon my spirit came Flooding glory, like a flame; And I soared away from the mountain height, Filled with a strange and mad delight: Away, away, over march and fen, Over the heads of my fellow-men; Hearing their choral praises rise, As I soared away through the pathless skies, In ever-echoing symphonies. But never a rest till I reached the star Ambition had pointed out afar; Alas! I knew not the dazzling ray Of its glory was made for no mortal sight-- And I sank back dazed with excess of light.

Still the proud wings bore me on, I knew not whether, my sight was gone; But I heard the tempest raging round, And the rolling thunder's terrible sound, As if all fierce passions were unbound. And the wings Ambition had tied so fast, Were rent from my soul by the tempest blast; And down I sank to earth again, Like the dead eagle on the plain, By the blasting lightning slain.

Then I heard a low Voice near, Murmuring softly in my ear:-- Shall I give thee wings of power, Wings that will thy spirit dower, With a strength that, angel-wise, Up will waft thee to the skies? Passing, unscathed, the Sun of Truth, Fatal to wings of Love in sooth; Past the false but glittering light, Whose glory dimm'd thy mortal sight; On, through the trackless firmament, Where the wings Ambition lent, By the stormy winds were rent.

Onward still, and ever higher, Past the solar central fire, Past the hymning angel choir; Till thou standest at the Throne Of the great Eternal One. Ever more to dwell on high, Breathing like a harmony, Through the unnumber'd worlds that lie Far in yon blue Infinity-- Wilt thou have these wings of mine? Murmured that low Voice divine.

Yet my touch is cold and chill, Horror through thy heart would thrill, Pale dismay thy bosom fill, Could'st thou see me face to face. Never one of human race Could that dreadful sight behold; Mortal lips have never told, All the terrors that abide, All the gloom, yet kingly pride, In the pale form at thy side. Ha! the cold sweat on thy brow,

As I bind them on thee now: Canst thou bear the touch of pain, For the glory thou shalt gain? Then I asked, with faltering breath Thy name, dread Spirit? and he saith-- I who give these wings am _Death_!

THE PARABLE OF LIFE.

I.

He treads alone the burning sand
Of the fiery desert plain;
No human heart is near to love,
No human hands sustain.
There are spirits dread in that region wild,
And they howl in the desert blast;
There are spirits lost, who wail and weep
As viewless they hurry past.

II.

There are forms that man never looked upon,
Nor mortal eye could bear--
The terrible sight of an angel's brow,
On which is stamped despair.
No lofty palm-tree casts a shade,
Gusheth no silvery well,
Where the stately Giraffe stoops down to drink,
Or cometh the soft Gazelle.

III.

For the desert islands of waving green
Are far, oh! far away;
And never a spot can the wanderer find
To rest from the noontide ray.
Oh! weary, weary, the changeless, waste,
Of that burning desert sand;
Oh! weary, weary, the changeless sky,
Of that blasted fiery land!

IV.

Weary to listen, with straining sense,
For the step or the voice of man;
To watch in despair, till the sun goes down,
For the wandering caravan.
But the sun goes down, and the white stars rise,
And never a sound is heard,
Save the roar of the Lion, the Panther's howl,
Or the scream of the carrion bird.

V.

Still on the pale young wanderer goes--
On, without fear or dread,
The hot sand burning beneath his feet,
The hot sun above his head:
On, tho' never his fevered lips
Have been cooled in the desert springs;
For the soul that is filled with the Spirit of God,
Recks little of earthly things.

VI.

On, tho' never the bending fruit
Of the palm-tree meets his hand;
No food, no rest, no shelter for him
In all that terrible land.
And the powers of Hell seem gathering round
That frail and gentle form,
But, sublime in the strength of faith, he stands
Unmoved, amid the storm.

VII.

The spirit is strong, but the flesh is weak,
He hath borne what a mortal can;
And down on the desolate waste he sinks,
A fainting, dying man.
Now the hot samiri approaches fast
The desert wind of dread;
Glaring upon the horizon's verge,
Like a pillar fiery red.

VIII.

Onward it comes in its lurid light,
Like a giant form of death,
Blasting the earth, and air, and sky,
With its scorching, deadly breath.
The sands rise high as the billows at sea,
Raging when tempest-tossed:
Ah! the fiery column has reached him now--
Pale wanderer--thou art lost!

IX.

It drinks the blood from his youthful cheek,
It burns up the life within;
And fiercely around him it dashes and whirls,
With a wild, unearthly din.
Then he seems to hear a silvery flow,
Soft gushing, like Paradise streams;
For of such whom the desert kills, it is said,
These are the dying dreams.

X.

And he lifts his head from the burning waste;
But in place of the silvery fall,
He sees but that lurid, fiery cloud
Encircling him as a pall.
Nearer and nearer it gathers round,
Stifling the half-breathed prayer,
And the fainting hands drop weary down,
That were lifted in mute despair.

XI.

There's an hour of dread for human souls,
When help there seemeth none,
And the powers of Hell rage fierce around
The God-forsaken one;
'Tis the hour of dread, when souls are tired,
And angels are bending down,
Watching each one that resisteth to death,
To weave for him the crown.

XII.

But an hour more dark, a trial more dread,
That Weary-one hath known;
For now he must fight the Lord of Hell,
In the desolate waste alone.
Oh! the burning breath of the fiery wind,
Hunger, and thirst, and woe--
What are they all to that strange, lone strife
With man's dark Demon-foe?

XIII.

What terrible form the Tempter chose,
Saw never a mortal eye--
Did he come in the flame, or the thunder-cloud,
Or flash as the lightning by?
Was his blasted brow as the midnight black,
Or wreathed with a lurid light,
Like the livid rays that play on the ice
In the gloom of a polar night?

XIV.

None can tell; but the subtle words
He poured in the wanderer's ears,
Are echoed to us from that desert wild,
Through the long, long course of years.
And ages many have shadowed the earth
Since human woes began,
Yet still, with the self-same words and lures,
He tempteth the sons of man.

XV.

Woe, woe to the suffering soul, unless
Sustained, O God, by Thee,
Who hears in its anguish the Tempter's words--
"Fall down, and worship me."
Woe to the soul that ascends the mount
Of pomp, and power, and pride,
With the glories of earth within his reach,
And the Demon at his side.

XVI.

But Christ, with His meek and holy brow,
Shuns not the deadly strife;
For His soul is strong in the armour of faith,
And His sword is the Word of Life.
The soul is strong, tho' the human frame
May faint 'neath the chastening rod;
And the Demon-foe recognises there
The mortal and the God.

XVII.

With the radiant light of a stainless soul,
As a crown upon His brow,
How He forces the trembling Chief of Hell
To bend in homage low.
Thus, with His foot on the serpent's head,
He stands a triumphant king;
But the serpent fangs that have pierced His heel,
Sorrow and Death must bring.

XVIII.

How glorious now is that frail, weak form,
Strong in the spirit within,
Standing alone in the desert of life,
Conquering Hell and Sin.
And we must tread the desert too,
Where want and woe assail;
We must war, like Christ, with the Prince of Hell,
We--human, weak, and frail.

XIX.

The Tempter will come in those moments of life,
When the soul is dark with fears,
And we sit by the empty urn of joy,
Filling it with our tears;
When those we love, as shadows pass,
And we tread life's desert lone,
Without hope in heaven, or love upon earth,
Wearily ever on.

XX.

It is then he will lead us to doubt upon God,
Doubt in His love for us;
And the murmuring soul he will tempt to ask--
"Why must I suffer thus?"
And pleasure and power will seem so near,
If we but kneel to him--
O God, keep from us the Tempter far,
When faith is burning dim!

XXI.

O Christ, who hast known the Tempter's strength,
Bend from Thy throne of light;
Aid in the terrible strife with Hell,
Aid with Thy power and might.
Teach us to fight as Thou hast fought;
To conquer as Thou hast done;
That angels may bring from the starry skies
The plan for the conquering one.

XXII.

For never yet was the Tempter foiled
By the might of Jehovah's name,
But holy joys in the sufferer's heart,
Like blessed angels came.
And the terrible strife, and the desert drear,
Will pass like earthly things;
But the soul that has conquered will rest in peace,
'Neath angels' shadowing wings.

VANITAS.

The glory of Life is fleeting;
Its splendour passeth away,
With tints and odours meeting
The flowers we twined to-day.

How brightly, in varied light, They reflected the morning sun; But the chilling dews of the night Withered them one by one.

So the stream of Existence floweth O'er the golden sands of youth, In the light of a joy that gloweth From the depths of its love and truth.

But heavy, and cold, and fast, The gathering clouds uprise, Eclipsing the light, which cast On the waters a thousand dyes.

And onward, in sullen endeavour, Like a stream in a sunless cave, It floweth in darkness ever: Yet--could we thus reach the grave!

But we wake to a sorrow deeper-- The knowledge of all we have lost; And the light grows fainter and weaker As we're borne from youth's sunny coast.

Yet onward with drifting motion, Still farther from life and light; Around us a desert Ocean-- Above us eternal Night.

FATALITY.

FROM THE GERMAN.

I.

One glance from thy dark eyes is all I pray for,
One word from thy lips breathed on mine,
One clasp of thy dear hand as a last favour--
Then go--I'll never more repine.

II.

Yet, thoughts of thee will dim my eyes with weeping,
In the noon-day's glorious light,
And dreams of thee will haunt my troubled sleeping,
'Neath the shadows of the night.

III.

A fatal gulf for ever lies between us,
I know we dare not speak of love,
Yet angels, purest angels, had they seen us,
Might well have pardoned from above.

IV.

The future is too dark for my sad seeing;
I gaze, but, weeping, turn away--
No hope, alas! of our ever being
Less sad than we are here this day.

DESTINY.

I.

There was a star that lit my life--
It hath set to rise no more,
For Heaven, in mercy, withdrew the light
I fain would have knelt before.

II.

There was a flower I pluck'd in my dreams,
Fragrant and fair to see;
Oh, would I had never awoke and found
Such bloom not here for me.

III.

There was a harp, whose magic tone,
Echoed my faintest words--
But Destiny's hand, with a ruthless touch,
Hath rent the golden chords.

IV.

There was a path like Eden's vale,
In which I was spell'd to stray,
But Destiny rose with a flaming sword
To guard that path alway.

V.

I've looked on eyes were like the star--
Their light is quench'd for me;
And a soul I have known like the golden harp
That breath'd but melody.

VI.

And moments bright as that dream-land
Where bloomed the radiant flower.
Oh! would I had died ere I felt the gloom
Of this dark, joyless hour.

VII.

Fatal the time I rais'd mine eyes
To eyes whose light hath blasted--
Yet ere I could turn from their glance away,
Life had with gazing wasted.

VIII.

Bitter the thought that years may pass--
Yet thus it must be ever,
To look on thy form, to hear thy voice--
But nearer--never, never.

IX.

Could I but love as I love the stars,
Or the gush of the twilight breeze,
Or the pale light of the wandering moon
Glancing through forest trees;

X.

With a sinless, calm, untroubled love,
Look upwards and adore--
Could I but thus gaze life away,
Without the wish to soar.

XI.

In vain! in vain! I hope, I weep,
I kneel the long nights in prayer--
Oh! better to die in the noon of life,
Than love, and yet despair.

MEMORY.

"Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria."--+DANTE.+

When the gloom the light appalleth-- When no tear-dew ever falleth Downward silently-- When the tired heart, from languor Of Life's poor unmeaning clangour, Droopeth wearily-- When the day, in its uprising, Bringeth nought that's worth the prizing, And the night, all dark and lonely, No star showeth, but clouds only-- I think of thee.

Pleasures past, a ghastly vision-- Words and looks but now tradition That thought brings; Holy Kalends of past meetings Rise again, with quick heart-beatings, On spirit wings. For a moment seems the vision A reality Elysian As the joy before the Fall; While I gaze the brightness waneth, Passeth, fadeth--what remaineth? Ashes all!

CORINNE'S LAST LOVE-SONG.

I.

How beautiful, how beautiful you streamed upon my sight, In glory and in grandeur, as a gorgeous sunset-light! How softly, soul-subduing, fell your words upon mine ear, Like low aerial music when some angel hovers near! What tremulous, faint ecstacy to clasp your hand in mine, Till the darkness fell upon me of a glory too divine! The air around grew languid with our intermingled breath, And in your beauty's shadow I sank motionless as death. I saw you not, I heard not, for a mist was on my brain-- I only felt that life could give no joy like that again.

II.

And this was Love--I knew it not, but blindly floated on, And now I'm on the ocean waste, dark, desolate, alone; The waves are raging round me--I'm reckless where they guide; No hope is left to light me, no strength to stem the tide. As a leaf along the torrent, a cloud across the sky, As dust upon the whirlwind, so my life is drifting by. The dream that drank the meteor's light--the form from Heav'n has flown-- The vision and the glory, they are passing--they are gone. Oh! love is frantic agony, and life one throb of pain; Yet I would bear its darkest woes to dream that dream again.

THE DYING CHRISTIAN.

By the streams of living water, Rest, my daughter. Soul, I would not stay thy flight; Jesus waiteth at the portal-- See, poor mortal, Open stand the doors of light.

Let me go, life's tempest braven, To the haven; There, beside the Saviour's throne, Where the choir of seraph voices Now rejoices In eternal jubal-tone.

By thy earthly Virgin Mother-- Saviour, Brother, Thou hast known the gloom of death; Through its shadows now I wander, Angels yonder, Keep me even as Jesus saith!

Now I see the distant glory-- Life's poor story Ends, as it began, in pain. Earthly form, doth it grieve me Thus to leave thee? No, for Christians die to reign.

What availeth life's brief sorrow? Ere the morrow Christ will change to smiles my sighs; Dreaming, pass we through death's portal-- Then, immortal, Waken up in Paradise.

Soul-Redeemer, by Thy power, In this hour, Keep faith's light from burning dim; I am strong when Thou art near me-- Saviour, hear me! Guard me with Thy Cherubim.

Thou the martyr's crown hath borne, Shame and scorn, All to save my soul from sin;

Thou the hosts of death assailest, Sinner frailest Through Thee rises conquering.

Prince of Life! my soul's endeavour, Now and ever, Be to sing Thy glorious love; Death is conquered! Thou hast given Peace from heaven-- Soon I'll chant Thy praise above!

SYMPATHIES WITH THE UNIVERSAL.

The Angel of the Universe, for ever stands he there Within the planet circle, the grand Hierophant of prayer; His altar is the eternal sun, his light its flames of gold, And the stars are his rosary, through the hands of angels rolled.

Down, down, throughout the Infinite, they're falling, world on world; Like coral beads from praying hands, the planet beads are hurled. Thus, for unnumbered ages on their diamond string they run, The circling planet rosary from Uranus to the Sun.

A rhythmic music rises from that stately choral band, Like a vibrant-chorded lyre when struck by angel hand; Pealing down the deep abysses, soaring up the infinite, The grand hymn of the Universe is sounding day and night.