Chapter XIV: Preface (3)

And tho' perhaps--but breathe it to no one--
Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful,
This philter in secret was first taught to flow on,
Yet 'tisn't less potent for being unlawful.
And, even tho' it taste of the smoke of that flame,
Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden--
Fill up--there's a fire in some hearts I could name,
Which may work too its charm, tho' as lawless and hidden.
So drink of the cup--for oh there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

Down in the valley come meet me to-night,
And I'll tell you your fortune truly
As ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light,
To a young maiden, shining as newly.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh,
Lest haply the stars should deceive me;
Such secrets between you and me and the sky
Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heavens be not dim,
My science shall call up before you
A male apparition,--the image of him
Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

And if to that phantom you'll be kind,
So fondly around you he'll hover,
You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find
'Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight,
He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion--
An ardor, of which such an innocent sprite
You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise,
As in destiny's book I've not seen them,
Must only be left to the stars and your eyes
To settle, ere morning, between them.

OH, YE DEAD!

Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead![1] whom we know by the light you give
From your cold gleaming eyes, tho' you move like men who live,
Why leave you thus your graves,
In far off fields and waves,
Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,
To haunt this spot where all
Those eyes that wept your fall,
And the hearts that wailed you, like your own, lie dead?

It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;
And the fair and the brave whom we loved on earth are gone;
But still thus even in death,
So sweet the living breath
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wander'd o'er,
That ere, condemned, we go
To freeze mid Hecla's snow,
We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more!

[1] Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.

O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

Of all the fair months, that round the sun In light-linked dance their circles run, Sweet May, shine thou for me; For still, when thy earliest beams arise, That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies, Sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves Its lingering smile on golden eyes, Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me; For when the last April sun grows dim, Thy Naïads prepare his steed[1] for him Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore, White Steed, most joy to thee; Who still, with the first young glance of spring, From under that glorious lake dost bring My love, my chief, to me.

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, When newly launched, thy long mane[2] curls, Fair Steed, as white and free; And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers, Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers, Around my love and thee.

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie, Most sweet that death will be, Which, under the next May evening's light, When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, Dear love, I'll die for thee.

[1] The particulars of the tradition respecting Donohue and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of Mayday, gliding over the lake on his favorite white horse to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path.

[2] The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, "O'Donohue's White Horses."

ECHO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes To music at night, When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, And far away, o'er lawns and lakes, Goes answering light.

Yet Love hath echoes truer far, And far more sweet, Than e'er beneath the moonlight star, Of horn or lute, or soft guitar, The songs repeat.

'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere, And only then,-- The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear, Is by that one, that only dear, Breathed back again!

OH BANQUET NOT.

Oh banquet not in those shining bowers,
Where Youth resorts, but come to me:
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,
More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.
And there we shall have our feast of tears,
And many a cup in silence pour;
Our guests, the shades of former years,
Our toasts to lips that bloom no more.

There, while the myrtle's withering boughs
Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,
To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.
Or, while some blighted laurel waves
Its branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected graves,
Where valor sleeps, unnamed, forgot.

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking
Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crowned,
And smiles are near, that once enchanted,
Unreached by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee.

Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken
For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries, resting never,
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.
Like spells, that naught on earth can break,
Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee.

SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT.

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave
To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave,
Where the first--where the last of her Patriots lies?

No--faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips,
Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost,
Yet, yet shall it sound, mid a nation's eclipse,
And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost;--[1]

What a union of all the affections and powers
By which life is exalted, embellished, refined,
Was embraced in that spirit--whose centre was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,
Thro' the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime--
Like a pyramid raised in the desert--where he
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;

That _one_ lucid interval, snatched from the gloom
And the madness of ages, when filled with his soul,
A Nation o'erleaped the dark bounds of her doom,
And for _one_ sacred instant, touched Liberty's goal?

Who, that ever hath heard him--hath drank at the source
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own,
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,
And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown?

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave
Wandered free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone thro',
As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," and gave,
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.

Who, that ever approached him, when free from the crowd,
In a home full of love, he delighted to tread
'Mong the trees which a nation had given, and which bowed,
As if each brought a new civic crown for his head--

Is there one, who hath thus, thro' his orbit of life
But at distance observed him--thro' glory, thro' blame,
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,
Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same,--

Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns
Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shrined--
O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns
Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!

[1] These lines were written on the death of our great patriot, Grattan, in the year 1820. It is only the two first verses that are either intended or fitted to be sung.

OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.

Oh, the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing, O'er files arrayed With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing! When hearts are all high beating, And the trumpet's voice repeating That song, whose breath May lead to death, But never to retreating. Oh the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing O'er files arrayed With helm and blade, And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather-- For ask yon despot, whether His plumed bands Could bring such hands And hearts as ours together. Leave pomps to those who need 'em-- Give man but heart and freedom, And proud he braves The gaudiest slaves That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. The sword may pierce the beaver, Stone walls in time may sever, 'Tis mind alone, Worth steel and stone, That keeps men free for ever. Oh that sight entrancing, When the morning's beam is glancing, O'er files arrayed With helm and blade, And in Freedom's cause advancing!

SWEET INNISFALLEN.

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well,
May calm and sunshine long be thine!
How fair thou art let others tell,--
To _feel_ how fair shall long be mine.

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell
In memory's dream that sunny smile,
Which o'er thee on that evening fell,
When first I saw thy fairy isle.

'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one,
Who had to turn to paths of care--
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent there;

No more unto thy shores to come,
But, on the world's rude ocean tost,
Dream of thee sometimes, as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours
To part from thee, as I do now,
When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers,
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.

For, though unrivalled still thy grace,
Thou dost not look, as then, _too_ blest,
But thus in shadow, seem'st a place
Where erring man might hope to rest--

Might hope to rest, and find in thee
A gloom like Eden's on the day
He left its shade, when every tree,
Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!
And all the lovelier for thy tears--
For tho' but rare thy sunny smile,
'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few,
But, when _indeed_ they come divine--
The brightest light the sun e'er threw
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!

'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.[1]

'Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought, Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought-- When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.

The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes, And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er From Dinis' green isle, to Glenà's wooded shore.

He listened--while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest, The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest; And the echoes sung back from their full mountain choir, As if loath to let song so enchanting expire.

It seemed as if every sweet note, that died here, Was again brought to life in some airier sphere, Some heaven in those hills, where the soul of the strain They had ceased upon earth was awaking again!

Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath Seemed to circle his name with a charm against death, He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim, "Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:

"Even so, tho' thy memory should now die away, 'Twill be caught up again in some happier day, And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong, Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song."

[1] Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney.

FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.

Fairest! put on awhile
These pinions of light I bring thee,
And o'er thy own green isle
In fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume,
At golden sunset hover
O'er scenes so full of bloom,
As I shall waft thee over.

Fields, where the Spring delays
And fearlessly meets the ardor
Of the warm Summer's gaze,
With only her tears to guard her.
Rocks, thro' myrtle boughs
In grace majestic frowning;
Like some bold warrior's brows
That Love hath just been crowning.

Islets, so freshly fair,
That never hath bird come nigh them,
But from his course thro' air
He hath been won down by them;--[1]
Types, sweet maid, of thee,
Whose look, whose blush inviting,
Never did Love yet see
From Heaven, without alighting.

Lakes, where the pearl lies hid,[2]
And caves, where the gem is sleeping,
Bright as the tears thy lid
Lets fall in lonely weeping.
Glens,[3] where Ocean comes,
To 'scape the wild wind's rancor,
And harbors, worthiest homes
Where Freedom's fleet can anchor.

Then, if, while scenes so grand,
So beautiful, shine before thee,
Pride for thy own dear land
Should haply be stealing o'er thee,
Oh, let grief come first,
O'er pride itself victorious--
Thinking how man hath curst
What Heaven had made so glorious!

[1] In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr. Keating says, "There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the rock."

[2] "Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears: and this we find confirmed by a present made A.C. 1094, by Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls."--_O'Halloran_.

[3] Glengariff.

QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND.

Quick! we have but a second,
Fill round the cup, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,
And we must away, away!
Grasp the pleasure that's flying,
For oh, not Orpheus' strain
Could keep sweet hours from dying,
Or charm them to life again.
Then, quick! we have but a second,
Fill round the cup while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,
And we must away, away!

See the glass, how it flushes.
Like some young Hebe's lip,
And half meets thine, and blushes
That thou shouldst delay to sip.
Shame, oh shame unto thee,
If ever thou see'st that day,
When a cup or lip shall woo thee,
And turn untouched away!
Then, quick! we have but a second,
Fill round, fill round, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,
And we must away, away!

AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS.

And doth not a meeting like this make amends,
For all the long years I've been wandering away--
To see thus around me my youth's early friends,
As smiling and kind as in that happy day?
Tho' haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,
The snow-fall of time may be stealing--what then?
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.

What softened remembrances come o'er the heart,
In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
So many a feeling, that long seemed effaced,
The warmth of a moment like this brings to light.

And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide, To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew, Tho' oft we may see, looking down on the tide, The wreck of full many a hope shining thro'; Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers, That once made a garden of all the gay shore, Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours, And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.

So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,
Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,
For want of some heart, that could echo it, near.
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,
To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hastening on,
Is all we enjoy of each other in this.

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart,
The more we should welcome and bless them the more;
They're ours, when we meet,--they are lost when we part,
Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er.
Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,
Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain,
That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,
Her magic shall send it direct thro' the chain.

THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.

In yonder valley there dwelt, alone, A youth, whose moments had calmly flown, Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night, He was haunted and watched by a Mountain Sprite.

As once, by moonlight, he wander'd o'er The golden sands of that island shore, A foot-print sparkled before his sight-- 'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite!

Beside a fountain, one sunny day, As bending over the stream he lay, There peeped down o'er him two eyes of light, And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.

He turned, but, lo, like a startled bird, That spirit fled!--and the youth but heard Sweet music, such as marks the flight Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.

One night, still haunted by that bright look, The boy, bewildered, his pencil took, And, guided only by memory's light, Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.

"Oh thou, who lovest the shadow," cried A voice, low whispering by his side, "Now turn and see,"--here the youth's delight Sealed the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.

"Of all the Spirits of land and sea," Then rapt he murmured, "there's none like thee, "And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light "In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!"

AS VANQUISHED ERIN.

As vanquished Erin wept beside
The Boyne's ill-fated river,
She saw where Discord, in the tide,
Had dropt his loaded quiver.
"Lie hid," she cried, "ye venomed darts,
"Where mortal eye may shun you;
"Lie hid--the stain of manly hearts,
"That bled for me, is on you."

But vain her wish, her weeping vain,--
As Time too well hath taught her--
Each year the Fiend returns again,
And dives into that water;
And brings, triumphant, from beneath
His shafts of desolation,
And sends them, winged with worse than death,
Through all her maddening nation.

Alas for her who sits and mourns,
Even now, beside that river--
Unwearied still the Fiend returns,
And stored is still his quiver.
"When will this end, ye Powers of Good?"
She weeping asks for ever;
But only hears, from out that flood,
The Demon answer, "Never!"

DESMOND'S SONG.[1]

By the Feal's wave benighted,
No star in the skies,
To thy door by Love lighted,
I first saw those eyes.
Some voice whispered o'er me,
As the threshold I crost,
There was ruin before me,
If I loved, I was lost.

Love came, and brought sorrow
Too soon in his train;
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow
'Twere welcome again.
Though misery's full measure
My portion should be,
I would drain it with pleasure,
If poured out by thee.

You, who call it dishonor
To bow to this flame,
If you've eyes, look but on her,
And blush while you blame.
Hath the pearl less whiteness
Because of its birth?
Hath the violet less brightness
For growing near earth?

No--Man for his glory
To ancestry flies;
But Woman's bright story
Is told in her eyes.

While the Monarch but traces
Thro' mortals his line,
Beauty, born of the Graces,
Banks next to Divine!

[1] "Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his family."--_Leland_, vol. ii.

THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

They know not my heart, who believe there can be One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee; Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour, As pure as the morning's first dew on the flower, I could harm what I love,--as the sun's wanton ray But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.

No--beaming with light as those young features are, There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far: It is not that cheek--'tis the soul dawning clear Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear: As the sky we look up to, tho' glorious and fair, Is looked up to the more, because Heaven lies there!

I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.

I wish I was by that dim Lake,[1] Where sinful souls their farewell take Of this vain world, and half-way lie In death's cold shadow, ere they die. There, there, far from thee, Deceitful world, my home should be; Where, come what might of gloom and pain, False hope should ne'er deceive again.

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound Of unseen waters falling round; The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head, Like man, unquiet even when dead! These, ay, these shall wean My soul from life's deluding scene, And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom, Like willows, downward towards the tomb.

As they, who to their couch at night Would win repose, first quench the light, So must the hopes, that keep this breast Awake, be quenched, ere it can rest. Cold, cold, this heart must grow, Unmoved by either joy or woe, Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown Within their current turns to stone.

[1] These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. "In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe."

SHE SUNG OF LOVE.

She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre
The rosy rays of evening fell,
As if to feed with their soft fire
The soul within that trembling shell.
The same rich light hung o'er her cheek,
And played around those lips that sung
And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,
If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.

But soon the West no longer burned,
Each rosy ray from heaven withdrew;
And, when to gaze again I turned,
The minstrel's form seemed fading too.
As if _her_ light and heaven's were one,
The glory all had left that frame;
And from her glimmering lips the tone,
As from a parting spirit, came.

Who ever loved, but had the thought
That he and all he loved must part?
Filled with this fear, I flew and caught
The fading image to my heart--
And cried, "Oh Love! is this thy doom?
"Oh light of youth's resplendent day!
"Must ye then lose your golden bloom,
"And thus, like sunshine, die away?"

SING--SING--MUSIC WAS GIVEN.

Sing--sing--Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,
But Love from the lips his true archery wings;
And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks,
At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.
Then sing--sing--Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

When Love, rocked by his mother,
Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him,
"Hush, hush," said Venus, "no other
"Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him."
Dreaming of music he slumbered the while
Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke,
And Venus, enchanted, looked on with a smile,
While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.
Then sing--sing--Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

THO' HUMBLE THE BANQUET.

Tho' humble the banquet to which I invite thee,
Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command:
Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,
And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.

And tho' Fortune may seem to have turned from the dwelling
Of him thou regardest her favoring ray,
Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,
Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.

'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion
Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves;
Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,
Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,
And, with this, tho' of all other treasures bereaved,
The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet
Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.

Then, come,--if a board so untempting hath power
To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;
And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower,
Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.

SING, SWEET HARP.

Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me
Some song of ancient days,
Whose sounds, in this sad memory,
Long buried dreams shall raise;--
Some lay that tells of vanished fame,
Whose light once round us shone;
Of noble pride, now turned to shame,
And hopes for ever gone.--
Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me;
Alike our doom is cast,
Both lost to all but memory,
We live but in the past.

How mournfully the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh,
As if it sought some echo there
Of voices long gone by;--
Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seemed
The foremost then in fame;
Of Bards who, once immortal deemed,
Now sleep without a name.--
In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh;
In vain it seeks an echo there
Of voices long gone by.

Couldst thou but call those spirits round.
Who once, in bower and hall,
Sat listening to thy magic sound,
Now mute and mouldering all;--
But, no; they would but wake to weep
Their children's slavery;
Then leave them in their dreamless sleep,
The dead, at least, are free!--
Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone,
That knell of Freedom's day;
Or, listening to its death-like moan,
Let me, too, die away.

SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.

TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY.

To-morrow, comrade, we On the battle-plain must be, There to conquer, or both lie low! The morning star is up,-- But there's wine still in the cup, And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go; We'll take another quaff, ere we go.

'Tis true, in manliest eyes A passing tear will rise, When we think of the friends we leave lone; But what can wailing do? See, our goblet's weeping too! With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own; With its tears we'll chase away our own.

But daylight's stealing on;-- The last that o'er us shone Saw our children around us play; The next--ah! where shall we And those rosy urchins be? But--no matter--grasp thy sword and away, boy, away; No matter--grasp thy sword and away!

Let those, who brook the chain Of Saxon or of Dane, Ignobly by their firesides stay; One sigh to home be given, One heartfelt prayer to heaven, Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra! Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!

THE WANDERING BARD.

What life like that of the bard can be-- The wandering bard, who roams as free As the mountain lark that o'er him sings, And, like that lark, a music brings Within him, where'er he comes or goes,-- A fount that for ever flows! The world's to him like some playground, Where fairies dance their moonlight round;-- If dimmed the turf where late they trod, The elves but seek some greener sod; So, when less bright his scene of glee, To another away flies he!

Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom, Without a bard to fix her bloom? They tell us, in the moon's bright round, Things lost in this dark world are found; So charms, on earth long past and gone, In the poet's lay live on.-- Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim? You've only to give them all to him. Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand, Can lend them life, this life beyond, And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,-- Young stars that never die!

Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes,-- For, tho' he hath countless airy homes, To which his wing excursive roves, Yet still, from time to time, he loves To light upon earth and find such cheer As brightens our banquet here. No matter how far, how fleet he flies, You've only to light up kind young eyes, Such signal-fires as here are given,-- And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven, The minute such call to love or mirth Proclaims he's wanting on earth!

ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON.

Alone in crowds to wander on, And feel that all the charm is gone Which voices dear and eyes beloved Shed round us once, where'er we roved-- This, this the doom must be Of all who've loved, and lived to see The few bright things they thought would stay For ever near them, die away.

Tho' fairer forms around us throng, Their smiles to others all belong, And want that charm which dwells alone Round those the fond heart calls its own. Where, where the sunny brow? The long-known voice--where are they now? Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain, The silence answers all too plain.

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth, If all her art can not call forth One bliss like those we felt of old From lips now mute, and eyes now cold? No, no,--her spell is vain,-- As soon could she bring back again Those eyes themselves from out the grave, As wake again one bliss they gave.

I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE.

I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,--
Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:
I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,
Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;
Where summer's wave unmurmuring dies,
Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush;
Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,
The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!"

There, amid the deep silence of that hour,
When stars can be heard in ocean dip,
Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,
Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:
Like him, the boy,[1] who born among
The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,
Sits ever thus,--his only song
To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!"

[1] The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians.

SONG OF INNISFAIL.

They came from a land beyond the sea,
And now o'er the western main
Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,
From the sunny land of Spain.
"Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,
Our destined home or grave?"[1]
Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams,
They swept the Atlantic wave.

And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines
A sparkle of radiant green,
As tho' in that deep lay emerald mines,
Whose light thro' the wave was seen.
"'Tis Innisfail[2]--'tis Innisfail!"
Rings o'er the echoing sea;
While, bending to heaven, the warriors hail
That home of the brave and free.

Then turned they unto the Eastern wave,
Where now their Day-God's eye
A look of such sunny-omen gave
As lighted up sea and sky.
Nor frown was seen thro' sky or sea,
Nor tear o'er leaf or sod,
When first on their Isle of Destiny
Our great forefathers trod.

[1] Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of a Western Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit.--_Keating_.

[2] The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland.

THE NIGHT DANCE.

Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high,
And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,
Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,
Obey the mute call and heave into motion.
Then, sound notes--the gayest, the lightest,
That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest!
Again! Again!

Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard
In that City of Statues described by romancers,
So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred,
And statues themselves all start into dancers!

Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,
And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,--
While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,
And listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us?
Again, that strain!--to hear it thus sounding
Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding--
Again! Again!

Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay,
Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather,
Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,
And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!

THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
My heart had leapt at that sweet lay;
Nor paused to ask of graybeard Reason
Should I the syren call obey.

And, see--the lamps still livelier glitter,
The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms
Could bend to tyranny's rude control,
Thus quail at sight of woman's charms
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing, The nymphs their fetters around him cast, And,--their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,-- Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last. For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving, Was like that rack of the Druid race,[1] Which the gentlest touch at once set moving, But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.

[1] The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to dislodge from their stations.

OH, ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRANMORE.

Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,
How oft I dream of thee,
And of those days when, by thy shore,
I wandered young and free.
Full many a path I've tried, since then,
Thro' pleasure's flowery maze,
But ne'er could find the bliss again
I felt in those sweet days.

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs,
At sunny morn I've stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs
That danced along thy flood;
Or, when the western wave grew bright
With daylight's parting wing,
Have sought that Eden in its light,
Which dreaming poets sing;[1]--

That Eden where the immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene,--
Whose bowers beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen.
Ah dream too full of saddening truth!
Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth,--
As sunny and as vain!

[1] "The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail or the Enchanted Island, the paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories",--_Beaufort's "Ancient Topography of Ireland_."

LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.

Lay his sword by his side,[1]--it hath served him too well
Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turned to a flying foe.
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,--
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause--for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;--
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains!"
And it cries from the grave where the hero lies deep,
"Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,
"Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,--
"It hath victory's life in it yet!"

"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield, "Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, "Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman sealed, Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. But, if grasped by a hand that hath learned the proud use Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,-- Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose, Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"

[1] It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their heroes along with them.

OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS.

Oh, could we do with this world of ours As thou dost with thy garden bowers, Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, What a heaven on earth we'd make it! So bright a dwelling should be our own, So warranted free from sigh or frown, That angels soon would be coming down, By the week or month to take it.

Like those gay flies that wing thro' air, And in themselves a lustre bear, A stock of light, still ready there, Whenever they wish to use it; So, in this world I'd make for thee, Our hearts should all like fire-flies be, And the flash of wit or poesy Break forth whenever we choose it.

While every joy that glads our sphere Hath still some shadow hovering near, In this new world of ours, my dear, Such shadows will all be omitted:-- Unless they're like that graceful one, Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun. Still near thee, leaves a charm upon Each spot where it hath flitted.

THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING.

The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,[1]
And its Chief, mid his heroes reclining,
Looks up with a sigh, to the trophied wall,
Where his sword hangs idly shining.
When, hark! that shout
From the vale without,--
"Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!"
Every Chief starts up
From his foaming cup,
And "To battle, to battle!" is the Finian's cry.

The minstrels have seized their harps of gold,
And they sing such thrilling numbers,
'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old,
Breaking forth from the place of slumbers!
Spear to buckler rang,
As the minstrels sang,
And the Sun-burst[2] o'er them floated wide;
While remembering the yoke
Which their father's broke,
"On for liberty, for liberty!" the Finians cried.

Like clouds of the night the Northmen came,
O'er the valley of Almhin lowering;
While onward moved, in the light of its fame,
That banner of Erin, towering.
With the mingling shock
Rung cliff and rock,
While, rank on rank, the invaders die:
And the shout, that last,
O'er the dying past,
Was "victory! victory!"--the Finian's cry.

[1] The Palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster. It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the name of the Hill of Allen, in the county of Kildare. The Finians, or Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this chief commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends.

[2] The name given to the banner of the Irish.

THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.

The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er, Thy triumph hath stained the charm thy sorrows then wore; And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains, Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.

Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart, That still the dark brand is there, though chainless thou art; And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burned, Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turned?

Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led, With eyes on her temple fixt, how proud was thy tread! Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that summit to gain Or died in the porch than thus dishonor the fane.

FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.

From this hour the pledge is given,
From this hour my soul is thine:
Come what will, from earth or heaven,
Weal or woe, thy fate be mine.
When the proud and great stood by thee,
None dared thy rights to spurn;
And if now they're false and fly thee,
Shall I, too, basely turn?
No;--whate'er the fires that try thee,
In the same this heart shall burn.

Tho' the sea, where thou embarkest,
Offers now no friendly shore,
Light may come where all looks darkest,
Hope hath life when life seems o'er.
And, of those past ages dreaming,
When glory decked thy brow,
Oft I fondly think, tho' seeming
So fallen and clouded now,
Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming,--
None so bright, so blest as thou!

SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.[1]

Silence is in our festal halls,--
Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;
In vain on thee sad Erin calls,
Her minstrel's voice responds no more;--
All silent as the Eolian shell
Sleeps at the close of some bright day,
When the sweet breeze that waked its swell
At sunny morn hath died away.

Yet at our feasts thy spirit long
Awakened by music's spell shall rise;
For, name so linked with deathless song
Partakes its charm and never dies:
And even within the holy fane
When music wafts the soul to heaven,
One thought to him whose earliest strain
Was echoed there shall long be given.

But, where is now the cheerful day.
The social night when by thy side
He who now weaves this parting lay
His skilless voice with thine allied;
And sung those songs whose every tone,
When bard and minstrel long have past,
Shall still in sweetness all their own
Embalmed by fame, undying last.

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,--
Or, if thy bard have shared the crown,
From thee the borrowed glory came,
And at thy feet is now laid down.
Enough, if Freedom still inspire
His latest song and still there be.
As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee.

[1] It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.

NATIONAL AIRS

ADVERTISEMENT.

It is Cicero, I believe, who says "_naturâ, ad modes ducimur;_" and the abundance of wild, indigenous airs, which almost every country, except England, possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The lovers of this simple, but interesting kind of music, are here presented with the first number of a collection, which, I trust, their contributions will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of those _half_ creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering in search of the remainder of themselves through the world. To supply this other half, by uniting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies which have hitherto had none,--or only such as are unintelligible to the generality of their hearers,--it is the object and ambition of the present work. Neither is it our intention to confine ourselves to what are strictly called National Melodies, but, wherever we meet with any wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as an _estray_ swan, and enrich our humble Hippocrene with its song.

T.M.

NATIONAL AIRS

A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.

(SPANISH AIR.)

"A Temple to Friendship;" said Laura, enchanted,
"I'll build in this garden,--the thought is divine!"
Her temple was built and she now only wanted
An image of Friendship to place on the shrine.
She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her
A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent;
But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer
Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.

"Oh! never," she cried, "could I think of enshrining
"An image whose looks are so joyless and dim;--
"But yon little god, upon roses reclining,
"We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him."
So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden
She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove:
"Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first maiden
"Who came but for Friendship and took away Love."

FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Flow on, thou shining river;
But ere thou reach the sea
Seek Ella's bower and give her
The wreaths I fling o'er thee
And tell her thus, if she'll be mine
The current of our lives shall be,
With joys along their course to shine,
Like those sweet flowers on thee.

But if in wandering thither
Thou find'st she mocks my prayer,
Then leave those wreaths to wither
Upon the cold bank there;
And tell her thus, when youth is o'er,
Her lone and loveless Charms shall be
Thrown by upon life's weedy shore.
Like those sweet flowers from thee.

ALL THAT'S BRIGHT MUST FADE.

(INDIAN AIR.)

All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest.
Stars that shine and fall;--
The flower that drops in springing;--
These, alas! are types of all
To which our hearts are clinging.
All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest?

Who would seek our prize
Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties
That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be
In utter darkness lying,
Than to be blest with light and see
That light for ever flying.
All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest!

SO WARMLY WE MET.

(HUNGARIAN AIR.)

So warmly we met and so fondly we parted,
That which was the sweeter even I could not tell,--
That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted,
Or that tear of passion, which blest our farewell.
To meet was a heaven and to part thus another,--
Our joy and our sorrow seemed rivals in bliss;
Oh! Cupid's two eyes are not liker each other
In smiles and in tears than that moment to this.

The first was like day-break, new, sudden, delicious,--
The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled up yet;
The last like the farewell of daylight, more precious,
More glowing and deep, as 'tis nearer its set.
Our meeting, tho' happy, was tinged by a sorrow
To think that such happiness could not remain;
While our parting, tho' sad, gave a hope that to-morrow
Would bring back the blest hour of meeting again.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

(AIR.--THE BELLS OF ST. PETERSBURGH.)

Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells, Of youth and home and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime.

Those joyous hours are past away: And many a heart, that then was gay. Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone: That tuneful peal will still ring on, While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Should those fond hopes e'er forsake thee,
Which now so sweetly thy heart employ:
Should the cold world come to wake thee
From all thy visions of youth and joy;
Should the gay friends, for whom thou wouldst banish
Him who once thought thy young heart his own,
All, like spring birds, falsely vanish,
And leave thy winter unheeded and lone;--

Oh! 'tis then that he thou hast slighted
Would come to cheer thee, when all seem'd o'er;
Then the truant, lost and blighted,
Would to his bosom be taken once more.
Like that dear bird we both can remember,
Who left us while summer shone round,
But, when chilled by bleak December,
On our threshold a welcome still found.

REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY.

(ITALIAN AIR.)

Reason and Folly and Beauty, they say, Went on a party of pleasure one day: Folly played Around the maid, The bells of his cap rung merrily out; While Reason took To his sermon-book-- Oh! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt, Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt.

Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage. Turned for a moment to Reason's dull page, Till Folly said, "Look here, sweet maid!"-- The sight of his cap brought her back to herself; While Reason read His leaves of lead, With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf! No,--no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!

Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap; Had he that on, he her heart might entrap-- "There it is," Quoth Folly, "old quiz!" (Folly was always good-natured, 'tis said,) "Under the sun There's no such fun, As Reason with my cap and bells on his head!" "Reason with my cap and bells on his head!"

But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore, That Beauty now liked him still less than before; While Folly took Old Reason's book, And twisted the leaves in a cap of such _ton_, That Beauty vowed (Tho' not aloud), She liked him still better in that than his own, Yes,--liked him still better in that than his own.

FARE THEE WELL, THOU LOVELY ONE!

(SICILIAN AIR.)

Fare thee well, thou lovely one!
Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,
Love's sweet life is o'er.
Thy words, what e'er their flattering spell,
Could scarce have thus deceived;
But eyes that acted truth so well
Were sure to be believed.
Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one!
Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,
Love's sweet life is o'er.

Yet those eyes look constant still,
True as stars they keep their light;
Still those cheeks their pledge fulfil
Of blushing always bright.
'Tis only on thy changeful heart
The blame of falsehood lies;
Love lives in every other part,
But there, alas! he dies.
Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one!
Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,
Love's sweet life is o'er.

DOST THOU REMEMBER.

(PORTUGUESE AIR.)

Dost thou remember that place so lonely, A place for lovers and lovers only, Where first I told thee all my secret sighs? When, as the moonbeam that trembled o'er thee Illumed thy blushes, I knelt before thee, And read my hope's sweet triumph in those eyes? Then, then, while closely heart was drawn to heart, Love bound us--never, never more to part!

And when I called thee by names the dearest[1] That love could fancy, the fondest, nearest,-- "My life, my only life!" among the rest; In those sweet accents that still enthral me, Thou saidst, "Ah!" wherefore thy life thus call me? "Thy soul, thy soul's the name I love best; "For life soon passes,--but how blest to be "That Soul which never, never parts from thee!"

[1] The thought in this verse is borrowed from the original Portuguese words.