THE BELL-FOUNDER.

THE BELL-FOUNDER.PART I.—LABOUR AND HOPE.

In that land where the heaven-tinted pencil giveth shape to the splendour ofdreams,Near Florence, the fairest of cities, and Arno, the sweetest of streams,'Neath those hills[94] whence the race of the Geraldine wandered in ages longsince,For ever to rule over Desmond and Erin as martyr and prince,Lived Paolo, the young Campanaro,[95] the pride of his own little vale--Hope changed the hot breath of his furnace as into a sea-wafted gale;Peace, the child of Employment, was with him, with prattle so soothing andsweet,And Love, while revealing the future, strewed the sweet roses under his feet.Ah! little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills,Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills.Ah! little they know of the blessedness toil-purchased slumber enjoys,Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that destroys,Nothing to hope for, or labour for; nothing to sigh for, or gain;Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain;Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er with its breath:Nothing but dulness and lethargy, weariness, sorrow, and death!But blessed that child of humanity, happiest man among men,Who, with hammer, or chisel, or pencil, with rudder, or ploughshare, or pen,Laboureth ever and ever with hope through the morning of life,Winning home and its darling divinities--love-worshipped children and wife,Round swings the hammer of industry, quickly the sharp chisel rings,And the heart of the toiler has throbbings that stir not the bosom of kings;He the true ruler and conqueror, he the true king of his race,Who nerveth his arm for life's combat, and looks the strong world in the face.And such was young Paolo! The morning, ere yet the faint starlight had gone,To the loud-ringing workshop beheld him move joyfully light-footed on.In the glare and the roar of the furnace he toiled till the evening starburned,And then back again through that valley, as glad but more weary returned.One moment at morning he lingers by that cottage that stands by the stream,Many moments at evening he tarries by that casement that woos the moon's beam;For the light of his life and his labours, like a lamp from that casementshinesIn the heart-lighted face that looks out from that purple-clad trellis ofvines.Francesca! sweet, innocent maiden! 'tis not that thy young cheek is fair,Or thy sun-lighted eyes glance like stars through the curls of thy wind-wovenhair;'Tis not for thy rich lips of coral, or even thy white breast of snow,That my song shall recall thee, Francesca! but more for the good heart below.Goodness is beauty's best portion, a dower that no time can reduce,A wand of enchantment and happiness, brightening and strengthening with use.One the long-sigh'd-for nectar that earthliness bitterly tinctures and taints:One the fading mirage of the fancy, and one the elysium it paints.Long ago, when thy father would kiss thee, the tears in his old eyes wouldstart,For thy face--like a dream of his boyhood--renewed the fresh youth of hisheart;He is gone; but thy mother remaineth, and kneeleth each night-time and morn,And blesses the Mother of Blessings for the hour her Francesca was born.There are proud stately dwellings in Florence, and mothers and maidens arethere,And bright eyes as bright as Francesca's, and fair cheeks as brilliantly fair;And hearts, too, as warm and as innocent, there where the rich paintings gleam,But what proud mother blesses her daughter like the mother by Arno's sweetstream?It was not alone when that mother grew aged and feeble to hear,That thy voice like the whisper of angels still fell on the old woman's ear,Or even that thy face, when the darkness of time overshadowed her sight,Shone calm through the blank of her mind, like the moon in the midst of thenight.But thine was the duty, Francesca, and the love-lightened labour was thine,To treasure the white-curling wool and the warm-flowing milk of the kine,And the fruits, and the clusters of purple, and the flock's tender yearlyincrease,Thatshemight have rest in life's evening, and go to her Father inpeace.Francesca and Paolo are plighted, and they wait but a few happy days,Ere they walk forth together in trustfulness out on Life's wonderful ways;Ere, clasping the hands of each other, they move through the stillness andnoise,Dividing the cares of existence, but doubling its hopes and its joys.Sweet days of betrothment, which brighten so slowly to love's burning noon,Like the days of the spring which grow longer, the nearer the fulness of June,Though ye move to the noon and the summer of Love with a slow-moving wing,Ye are lit with the light of the morning, and decked with the blossoms ofspring.The days of betrothment are over, for now when the evening star shines,Two faces look joyfully out from that purple-clad trellis of vines;The light-hearted laughter is doubled, two voices steal forth on the air,And blend in the light notes of song, or the sweet solemn cadence of prayer.At morning when Paolo departeth, 'tis out of that sweet cottage door,At evening he comes to that casement, but passes that casement no more;And the old feeble mother at night-time, when saying, "The Lord's will bedone,"While blessing the name of a daughter, now blendeth the name of a son.

PART II.—TRIUMPH AND REWARD.

In the furnace the dry branches crackle, the crucible shines as with gold,As they carry the hot flaming metal in haste from the fire to the mould;Loud roars the bellows, and louder the flames as they shrieking escape,And loud is the song of the workmen who watch o'er the fast-filling shape;To and fro in the red-glaring chamber the proud master anxiously moves,And the quick and the skilful he praiseth, and the dull and the laggardreproves;And the heart in his bosom expandeth, as the thick bubbling metal up swells,For like to the birth of his children he watcheth the birth of the bells.Peace had guarded the door of young Paolo, success on his industry smiled,And the dark wing of Time had passed quicker than grief from the face of achild;Broader lands lay around that sweet cottage, younger footsteps tripped lightlyaround,And the sweet silent stillness was broken by the hum of a still sweeter sound.At evening when homeward returning how many dear hands must he press,Where of old at that vine-covered wicket he lingered but one to caress;Andthatdearest one is still with him, to counsel, to strengthen, andcalm,And to pour over Life's needful wounds the healing of Love's blessed balm.But age will come on with its winter, though happiness hideth its snows;And if youth has its duty of labour, the birthright of age is repose:And thus from that love-sweetened toil, which the heavens had so prospered andblest,The old Campanaro will go to that vine-covered cottage to rest;But Paolo is pious and grateful, and vows as he kneels at her shrine,To offer some fruit of his labour to Mary the Mother benign--Eight silver-toned bells will he offer, to toll for the quick and the dead,From the tower of the church of her convent that stands on the cliff overhead.'Tis for this that the bellows are blowing, that the workmen theirsledge-hammers wield,That the firm sandy moulds are now broken, and the dark-shining bells arerevealed;The cars with their streamers are ready, and the flower-harnessed necks of thesteers,And the bells from their cold silent workshop are borne amid blessings andtears.By the white-blossom'd, sweet-scented myrtles, by the olive-trees fringing theplain,By the corn-fields and vineyards is winding that gift-bearing, festival train;And the hum of their voices is blending with the music that streams on thegale,As they wend to the Church of our Lady that stands at the head of the vale.Now they enter, and now more divinely the saints' painted effigies smile,Now the acolytes bearing lit tapers move solemnly down through the aisle,Now the thurifer swings the rich censer, and the white curling vapourup-floats,And hangs round the deep-pealing organ, and blends with the tremulous notes.In a white shining alb comes the abbot, and he circles the bells round about,And with oil, and with salt, and with water, they are purified inside and out;They are marked with Christ's mystical symbol, while the priests and thechoristers sing,And are bless'd in the name of that God to whose honour they ever shall ring.Toll, toll! with a rapid vibration, with a melody silv'ry and strong,The bells from the sound-shaken belfry are singing their first maiden song;Not now for the dead or the living, or the triumphs of peace or of strife,But a quick joyous outburst of jubilee full of their newly-felt life;Rapid, more rapid, the clapper rebounds from the round of the bells--Far and more far through the valley the intertwined melody swells--Quivering and broken the atmosphere trembles and twinkles around,Like the eyes and the hearts of the hearers that glisten and beat to the sound.But how to express all his rapture when echo the deep cadence boreTo the old Campanaro reclining in the shade of his vine-covered door,How to tell of the bliss that came o'er him as he gazed on the fair eveningstar,And heard the faint toll of the vesper bell steal o'er the vale from afar--Ah! it was not alone the brief ecstasy music doth ever impartWhen Sorrow and Joy at its bidding come together and dwell in the heart;But it was that delicious sensation with which the young mother is blest,As she lists to the laugh of her child as it falleth asleep on her breast.From a sweet night of slumber he woke; but it was not that morn had unroll'dO'er the pale, cloudy tents of the Orient, her banners of purple and gold:It was not the song of the skylark that rose from the green pastures near,But the sound of his bells that fell softly, as dew on the slumberer's ear.At that sound he awoke and arose, and went forth on the bead-bearing grass--At that sound, with his loving Francesca, he piously knelt at the Mass.If the sun shone in splendour around him, and that certain music were dumb,He would deem it a dream of the night-time, and doubt if the morning had come.At noon, as he lay in the sultriness, under his broad-leafy limes,Far sweeter than murmuring waters came the tone of the Angelus chimes.Pious and tranquil he rose, and uncovered his reverend head,And thrice was the Ave Maria and thrice was the Angelus said,Sweet custom the South still retaineth, to turn for a moment awayFrom the pleasures and pains of existence, from the trouble and turmoil of day,From the tumult within and without, to the peace that abideth on high,When the deep, solemn sound from the belfry comes down like a voice from thesky.And thus round the heart of the old man, at morning, at noon, and at eve,The bells, with their rich woof of music, the net-work of happiness weave,They ring in the clear, tranquil evening, and lo! all the air is alive,As the sweet-laden thoughts come, like bees, to abide in the heart as a hive.They blend with his moments of joy, as the odour doth blend with the flower--They blend with his light-falling tears, as the sunshine doth blend with theshower.As their music is mirthful or mournful, his pulse beateth sluggish or fast,And his breast takes its hue, like the ocean, as the sunshine or shadows arecast.Thus adding new zest to enjoyment, and drawing the sharp sting from pain,The heart of the old man grew young, as it drank the sweet musical strain.Again at the altar he stands, with Francesca the fair at his side,As the bells ring a quick peal of gladness, to welcome some happy young bride.'Tis true, when the death bells are tolling, the wounds of his heart bleedanew,When he thinks of his old loving mother, and the darlings that destiny slew;But the tower in whose shade they are sleeping seems the emblem of hope and oflove,--There is silence and death at its base, but there's life in the belfry above.Was it the sound of his bells, as they swung in the purified air,That drove from the bosom of Paolo the dark-wingèd demons of care?Was it their magical tone that for many a shadowless day(So faith once believed) swept the clouds and the black-boding tempests away?Ah! never may Fate with their music a harsh-grating dissonance blend!Sure an evening so calm and so bright will glide peacefully on to the end.Sure the course of his life, to its close, like his own native river must be,Flowing on through the valley of flowers to its home in the bright summer sea!

PART III.—VICISSITUDE AND REST.

O Erin! thou broad-spreading valley--thou well-watered land of fresh streams,When I gaze on thy hills greenly sloping, where the light of such lovelinessbeams,When I rest by the rim of thy fountains, or stray where thy streams disembogue,Then I think that the fairies have brought me to dwell in the brightTir-na-n-oge.[96]But when on the face of thy children I look, and behold the big tearsStill stream down their grief-eaten channels, which widen and deepen withyears,I fear that some dark blight for ever will fall on thy harvests of peace,And that, like thy lakes and thy rivers, thy sorrows must ever increase.[97]O land! which the heavens made for joy, but where wretchedness buildeth itsthrone--O prodigal spendthrift of sorrow! and hast thou not heirs of thine own?Thus to lavish thy sons' only portion, and bring one sad claimant the more,From the sweet sunny lands of the south, to thy crowded and sorrowful shore?For this proud bark that cleaveth thy waters, she is not a corrach of thine,And the broad purple sails that spread o'er her seem dyed in the juice of thevine.Not thine is that flag, backward floating, nor the olive-cheek'd seamen whoguide,Nor that heart-broken old man who gazes so listlessly over the tide.Accurs'd be the monster, who selfishly draweth his sword from its sheath;Let his garland be twined by the furies, and the upas tree furnish the wreath;Let the blood he has shed steam around him, through the length of eternity'syears,And the anguish-wrung screams of his victims for ever resound in his ears.For all that makes life worth possessing must yield to his self-seeking lust:He trampleth on home and on love, as his war-horses trample the dust;He loosens the red streams of ruin, which wildly, though partially, stray--They but chafe round the rock-bastion'd castle, while they sweep the frailcottage away.Feuds fell like a plague upon Florence, and rage from without and within;Peace turned her mild eyes from the havoc, and Mercy grew deaf in the din;Fear strengthened the dove-wings of happiness, tremblingly borne on the gale;And the angel Security vanished, as the war-demon swept o'er the vale.Is it for the Mass or the Angelus new that the bells ever ring?Or is it the red trickling mist such a purple reflection doth fling?Ah, no: 'tis the tocsin of terror that tolls from the desolate shrine;And the down-trodden vineyards are flowing, but not with the blood of the vine.Deadly and dark was the tempest that swept o'er that vine-cover'd plain;Burning and withering, its drops fell like fire on the grass and the grain.But the gloomiest moments must pass to their graves, as the brightest and best,And thus once again did fair Fiesole look o'er a valley of rest.But, oh! in that brief hour of horror, that bloody eclipse of the sun,What hopes and what dreams have been shattered?--what ruin and wrong have beendone?What blossoms for ever have faded, that promised a harvest so fair;And what joys are laid low in the dust that eternity cannot repair!Look down on that valley of sorrows, whence the land-marks of joy are removed,Oh! where is the darling Francesca, so loving, so dearly beloved?--And where are her children, whose voices rose music-winged once form this spot?And why are the sweet bells now silent? and where is the vine-cover'd cot?'Tis morning--no Mass-bell is tolling; 'tis noon, but no Angelus rings;'Tis evening, but no drops of melody rain from her rose-coloured wings.Ah! where have the angels, poor Paolo, that guarded thy cottage door flown?And why have they left thee to wander thus childless and joyless alone?His children had grown into manhood, but, ah! in that terrible nightWhich had fallen on fair Florence, they perished away in the thick of thefight;Heart-blinded, his darling Francesca went seeking her sons through the gloom,And found them at length, and lay down full of love by their side in the tomb,That cottage, its vine-cover'd porch and its myrtle-bound garden of flowers,That church whence the bells with their voices, drown'd the sound of thefast-flying hours,Both are levelled and laid in the dust, and the sweet-sounding bells have beentornFrom their downfallen beams, and away by the red hand of sacrilege borne.As the smith, in the dark, sullen smithy, striketh quick on the anvil below,Thus Fate on the heart of the old man struck rapidly blow after blow:Wife, children, and hope passed away from the heart once so burning and bold,As the bright shining sparks disappear when the red glowing metal grows cold.He missed not the sound of his bells while those death-sounds struck loud inthe ears,He missed not the church where they rang while his old eyes were blinded withtears;But the calmness of grief coming soon, in its sadness and silence profound,He listened once more as of old, but in vain, for the joy-bearing sound.When he felt indeed they had vanished, one fancy then flashed on his brain,One wish made his heart beat anew with a throbbing it could not restrain--'Twas to wander away from fair Florence, its memory and dream-haunted dells,And to seek up and down through the earth for the sound of its magical bells.They will speak of the hopes that have perished, and the joys that have fadedso fastWith the music of memory wingèd, they will seem but the voice of the past;As, when the bright morning has vanished, and evening grows starless and dark,The nightingale song of remembrance recalls the sweet strain of the lark.Thus restlessly wandering through Italy, now by the Adrian sea,In the shrine of Loreto, he bendeth his travel-tired suppliant knee;And now by the brown troubled Tiber he taketh his desolate way,And in many a shady basilica lingers to listen and pray.He prays for the dear ones snatched from him, nor vainly nor hopelessly prays,For the strong faith in union hereafter like a beam o'er his cold bosom plays;He listens at morning and evening, when matin and vesper bells toll,But their sweetest sounds grate on his ear, and their music is harsh to hissoul.For though sweet are the bells that ring out from the tall campanili of Rome,Ah! they are not the dearer and sweeter ones, tuned with the memory of home.So leaving proud Rome and fair Tivoli, southward the old man must stray,'Till he reaches the Eden of waters that sparkle in Napoli's bay:He sees not the blue waves of Baiæ, nor Ischia's summits of brown,He sees but the high campanili that rise o'er each far-gleaming town.Driven restlessly onward, he saileth away to the bright land of Spain,And seeketh thy shrine, Santiago, and stands by the western main.A bark bound for Erin lay waiting, he entered like one in a dream;Fair winds in the full purple sails led him soon to the Shannon's broad stream.'Twas an evening that Florence might envy, so rich was the lemon-hued air,As it lay on lone Scattery's island, or lit the green mountains of Clare;The wide-spreading old giant river rolled his waters as smooth and as stillAs if Oonagh, with all her bright nymphs, had come down from the far fairyhill,[98]To fling her enchantments around on the mountains, the air, and the tide,And to soothe the worn heart of the old man who looked from the dark vessel'sside.Borne on the current the vessel glides smoothly but swiftly away,By Carrigaholt, and by many a green sloping headland and bay,'Twixt Cratloe's blue hills and green woods, and the soft sunny shores ofTervoe,And now the fair city of Limerick spreads out on the broad bank below;Still nearer and nearer approaching, the mariners look o'er the town,The old man sees nought but St. Mary's square tower, with its battlementsbrown.He listens--as yet all is silent, but now, with a sudden surprise,A rich peal of melody rings from that tower through the clear evening skies!One note is enough--his eye moistens, his heart, long so wither'd, outswells,He has found them--the sons of his labours--his musical, magical bells!At each stroke all the bright past returneth, around him the sweet Arno shines,His children--his darling Francesca--his purple-clad trellis of vines!Leaning forward, he listens, he gazes, he hears in that wonderful strainThe long-silent voices that murmur, "Oh, leave us not, father again!"'Tis granted--he smiles--his eye closes--the breath from his white lips hathfled--The father has gone to his children--the old Campanaro is dead!

94The hills of Else. See Appendix to O'Daly's "History of the Geraldines," translated by the Rev. C. P. Meehan, p. 130.

95Bell-founder.

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

97Camden seems to credit a tradition commonly believed in his time, of a gradual increase in the number and size of the lakes and rivers of Ireland.

98The beautiful hill in Lower Ormond calledKnockshegowna,i.e., Oonagh's Hill, so called from being the fabled residence of Oonagh (or Una), the Fairy Queen of Spenser. One of the finest views of the Shannon is to be seen from this hill.

ALICE AND UNA.A TALE OF CEIM-AN-EICH.99

Ah! the pleasant time hath vanished, ere our wretched doubtings banished,All the graceful spirit-people, children of the earth and sea,Whom in days now dim and olden, when the world was fresh and golden,Every mortal could behold in haunted rath, and tower, and tree--They have vanished, they are banished--ah! how sad the loss for thee,Lonely Céim-an-eich!Still some scenes are yet enchanted by the charms that Nature granted,Still are peopled, still are haunted, by a graceful spirit band.Peace and beauty have their dwelling where the infant streams are welling,Where the mournful waves are knelling on Glengariff's coral strand;Or where, on Killarney's mountains, Grace and Terror smiling stand,Like sisters, hand in hand!Still we have a new romance in fire-ships through the tamed sea glancing,And the snorting and the prancing of the mighty engine steed;Still, Astolpho-like, we wander through the boundless azure yonder,Realizing what seemed fonder than the magic tales we read:Tales of wild Arabian wonder, where the fancy all is freed--Wilder far indeed!Now that Earth once more hath woken, and the trance of Time is broken,And the sweet word--Hope--is spoken, soft and sure, though none know how,Could we, could we only see all these, the glories of the Real,Blended with the lost Ideal, happy were the old world now--Woman in its fond believing--man with iron arm and brow--Faith and work its vow!Yes! the Past shines clear and pleasant, and there's glory in the Present;And the Future, like a crescent, lights the deepening sky of Time;And that sky will yet grow brighter, if the Worker and the Writer--If the Sceptre and the Mitre join in sacred bonds sublime.With two glories shining o'er them, up the coming years they'll climb,Earth's great evening as its prime!With a sigh for what is fading, but, O Earth! with no upbraiding,For we feel that time is braiding newer, fresher flowers for thee,We will speak, despite our grieving, words of loving and believing,Tales we vowed when we were leaving awful Céim-an-eich,Where the sever'd rocks resemble fragments of a frozen sea,And the wild deer flee!'Tis the hour when flowers are shrinking, when the weary sun is sinking,And his thirsty steeds are drinking in the cooling western sea;When young Maurice lightly goeth, where the tiny streamlet flowethAnd the struggling moonlight showeth where his path must be--Path whereon the wild goats wander fearlessly and freeThrough dark Céim-an-eich.As a hunter, danger daring, with his dogs the brown moss sharing,Little thinking, little caring, long a wayward youth lived he;But his bounding heart was regal, and he looked as looks the eagle,And he flew as flies the beagle, who the panting stag doth see:Love, who spares a fellow-archer, long had let him wander freeThrough wild Céim-an-eich!But at length the hour drew nigher when his heart should feel that fire;Up the mountain high and higher had he hunted from the dawn;Till the weeping fawn descended, where the earth and ocean blended,And with hope its slow way wended to a little grassy lawn;It is safe, for gentle Alice to her saving breast hath drawnHer almost sister fawn.Alice was a chieftain's daughter, and, though many suitors sought her,She so loved Glengariff's water that she let her lovers pine;Her eye was beauty's palace, and her cheek an ivory chalice,Through which the blood of Alice gleamed soft as rosiest wine,And her lips like lusmore blossoms which the fairies intertwine,[100]And her heart a golden mine.She was gentler and shyer than the light fawn that stood by her,And her eyes emit a fire soft and tender as her soul;Love's dewy light doth drown her, and the braided locks that crown herThan autumn's trees are browner, when the golden shadows rollThrough the forests in the evening, when cathedral turrets toll,And the purple sun advanceth to its goal.Her cottage was a dwelling all regal homes excelling,But, ah! beyond the telling was the beauty round it spread:The wave and sunshine playing, like sisters each arraying,Far down the sea-plants swaying upon their coral bed,As languid as the tresses on a sleeping maiden's head,When the summer breeze is dead.Need we say that Maurice loved her, and that no blush reproved herWhen her throbbing bosom moved her to give the heart she gave;That by dawnlight and by twilight, and, O blessed moon! by thy light,When the twinkling stars on high light the wanderer o'er the wave,His steps unconscious led him where Glengariff's waters laveEach mossy bank and cave.He thitherward is wending, o'er the vale is night descending,Quick his step, but quicker sending his herald thoughts before;By rocks and streams before him, proud and hopeful on he bore him;One star was shining o'er him--in his heart of hearts two more--And two other eyes, far brighter than a human head e'er wore,Unseen were shining o'er.These eyes are not of woman, no brightness merely humanCould, planet-like, illumine the place in which they shone;But Nature's bright works vary--there are beings light and airy,Whom mortal lips call fairy, and Una she is one--Sweet sisters of the moonbeams and daughters of the sun,Who along the curling cool waves run.As summer lightning dances amid the heavens' expanses,Thus shone the burning glances of those flashing fairy eyes;Three splendours there were shining, three passions intertwining,Despair and hope combining their deep-contrasted dyes,With jealousy's green lustre, as troubled ocean viesWith the blue of summer skies!She was a fairy creature, of heavenly form and feature,Not Venus' self could teach her a newer, sweeter grace,Not Venus' self could lend her an eye so dark and tender,Half softness and half splendour, as lit her lily face;And as the choral planets move harmonious throughout space,There was music in her pace.But when at times she started, and her blushing lips were parted,And a pearly lustre darted from her teeth so ivory white,You'd think you saw the gliding of two rosy clouds dividing,And the crescent they were hiding gleam forth upon your sightThrough these lips, as though the portals of a heaven pure and bright,Came a breathing of delight!Though many an elf-king loved her, and elf-dames grave reproved her,The hunter's daring moved her more wildly every hour;Unseen she roamed beside him, to guard him and to guide him,But now she must divide him from her human rival's power.Ah! Alice!--gentle Alice! the storm begins to lowerThat may crush Glengariff's flower!The moon, that late was gleaming, as calm as childhood's dreaming,Is hid, and, wildly screaming, the stormy winds arise;And the clouds flee quick and faster before their sullen master,And the shadows of disaster are falling from the skies;Strange sights and sounds are rising--but, Maurice, be thou wise,Nor heed the tempting cries.If ever mortal needed that council, surely he did;But the wile has now succeeded--he wanders from his path;The cloud its lightning sendeth, and its bolt the stout oak rendeth,And the arbutus back bendeth in the whirlwind, as a lath!Now and then the moon looks out, but, alas! its pale face hathA dreadful look of wrath.In vain his strength he squanders--at each step he wider wanders--Now he pauses--now he ponders where his present path may lead;And, as he round is gazing, he sees--a sight amazing--Beneath him, calmly grazing, a noble jet-black steed."Now, heaven be praised!" cried Maurice, "for this succour in my need--From this labyrinth I'm freed!"Upon its back he leapeth, but a shudder through him creepeth,As the mighty monster sweepeth like a torrent through the dell;His mane, so softly flowing, is now a meteor blowing,And his burning eyes are glowing with the light of an inward hell;And the red breath of his nostrils, like steam where the lightning fell;And his hoofs have a thunder knell!What words have we for painting the momentary faintingThat the rider's heart is tainting, as decay doth taint a corse?But who will stoop to chiding, in a fancied courage priding,When we know that he is riding the fearful Phooka Horse?[101]Ah! his heart beats quick and faster than the smitings of remorseAs he sweepeth through the wild grass and gorse!As the avalanche comes crashing, 'mid the scattered streamlets splashing,Thus backward wildly dashing flew the horse through Céim-an-eich--Through that glen so wide and narrow back he darted like an arrow--Round, round by Gougane Barra, and the fountains of the Lee;O'er the Giant's Grave he leapeth, and he seems to own in feeThe mountains, and the rivers, and the sea!From his flashing hoofs who shall lock the eagle homes of Malloc,When he bounds, as bounds the Mialloch[102] in its wild and murmuring tide?But as winter leadeth Flora, or the night leads on Aurora,Or as shines green Glashenglora[103] along the black hill's side,Thus, beside that demon monster, white and gentle as a bride,A tender fawn is seen to glide.It is the fawn that fled him, and that late to Alice led him,But now it does not dread him, as it feigned to do before,When down the mountain gliding, in that sheltered meadow hiding,It left his heart abiding by wild Glengariff's shore:For it was a gentle fairy who the fawn's light form thus wore,And who watched sweet Alice o'er.But the steed is backward prancing where late it was advancing,And his flashing eyes are glancing, like the sun upon Lough Foyle;The hardest granite crushing, through the thickest brambles brushing,Now like a shadow rushing up the sides of Slieve-na-goil!And the fawn beside him gliding o'er the rough and broken soil,Without fear and without toil.Through woods, the sweet birds' leaf home, he rusheth to the sea foam,Long, long the fairies' chief home, when the summer nights are cool,And the blue sea, like a syren, with its waves the steed environ,Which hiss like furnace iron when plunged within a pool,Then along among the islands where the water nymphs bear rule,Through the bay to Adragool.Now he rises o'er Berehaven, where he hangeth like a raven--Ah! Maurice, though no craven, how terrible for theeTo see the misty shading of the mighty mountains fading,And thy winged fire-steed wading through the clouds as through a sea!Now he feels the earth beneath him--he is loosen'd--he is free,And asleep in Céim-an-eich.Away the wild steed leapeth, while his rider calmly sleepethBeneath a rock which keepeth the entrance to the glen,Which standeth like a castle, where are dwelling lord and vassal,Where within are wind and wassail, and without are warrior men;But save the sleeping Maurice, this castle cliff had thenNo mortal denizen![104]Now Maurice is awaking, for the solid earth is shaking,And a sunny light is breaking through the slowly opening stoneAnd a fair page at the portal crieth, "Welcome, welcome! mortal,Leave thy world (at best a short ill), for the pleasant world we own:There are joys by thee untasted, there are glories yet unknown--Come kneel at Una's throne."With a sullen sound of thunder, the great rock falls asunder,He looks around in wonder, and with ravishment awhile,For the air his sense is chaining, with as exquisite a painingAs when summer clouds are raining o'er a flowery Indian isle;And the faces that surround him, oh! how exquisite their smile,So free of mortal care and guile.These forms, oh! they are finer--these faces are divinerThan, Phidias, even thine are, with all thy magic art;For beyond an artist's guessing, and beyond a bard's expressing,Is the face that truth is dressing with the feelings of the heart;Two worlds are there together--earth and heaven have each a part--And of such, divinest Una, thou art!And then the dazzling lustre of the hall in which they muster--Where the brightest diamonds cluster on the flashing walls around;And the flying and advancing, and the sighing and the glancing.And the music and the dancing on the flower-inwoven ground,And the laughing and the feasting, and the quaffing and the sound,In which their voices all are drowned.But the murmur now is hushing--there's a pushing and a rushing,There's a crowding and a crushing, through that golden, fairy place,Where a snowy veil is lifting, like the slow and silent shiftingOf a shining vapour drifting across the moon's pale face--For there sits gentle Una, fairest queen of fairy race,In her beauty, and her majesty, and grace.The moon by stars attended, on her pearly throne ascended,Is not more purely splendid than this fairy-girted queen;And when her lips had spoken, 'mid the charmed silence broken,You'd think you had awoken in some bright Elysian scene;For her voice than the lark's was sweeter, that sings in joy betweenThe heavens and the meadows green.But her cheeks--ah! what are roses?--what are clouds where eve reposes?--What are hues that dawn discloses?--to the blushes spreading there;And what the sparkling motion of a star within the ocean,To the crystal soft emotion that her lustrous dark eyes wear?And the tresses of a moonless and a starless night are fairTo the blackness of her raven hair.Ah! mortal hearts have panted for what to thee is granted--To see the halls enchanted of the spirit world revealed;And yet no glimpse assuages the feverish doubt that ragesIn the hearts of bards and sages wherewith they may be healed;For this have pilgrims wandered--for this have votaries kneeled--For this, too, has blood bedewed the field."And now that thou beholdest what the wisest and the oldest,What the bravest and the boldest, have never yet descried,Wilt thou come and share our being, be a part of what thou'rt seeing,And flee, as we are fleeing, through the boundless ether wide?Or along the silver ocean, or down deep where pale pearls hide?And I, who am a queen, will be thy bride."As an essence thou wilt enter the world's mysterious centre,"And then the fairy bent her, imploring to the youth--"Thou'lt be free of Death's cold ghastness, and, with a comet's fastness,Thou canst wander through the vastness to the Paradise of Truth,Each day a new joy bringing, which will never leave in soothThe slightest stain of weariness and ruth."As he listened to the speaker, his heart grew weak and weaker--Ah! Memory, go seek her, that maiden by the wave,Who with terror and amazement is looking from her casement,Where the billows at the basement of her nestled cottage rave,At the moon which struggles onward through the tempest, like the brave,And which sinks within the clouds as in a grave.All maidens will abhor us, and it's very painful for usTo tell how faithless Maurice forgot his plighted vow:He thinks not of the breaking of the heart he late was seeking,He but listens to her speaking, and but gazes on her brow;And his heart has all consented, and his lips are ready nowWith the awful and irrevocable vow.While the word is there abiding, lo! the crowd is now dividing,And, with sweet and gentle gliding, in before him came a fawn;It was the same that fled him, and that seemed so much to dread him,When it down in triumph led him to Glengariff's grassy lawn,When, from rock to rock descending, to sweet Alice he was drawn,As through Céim-an-eich he hunted from the dawn.The magic chain is broken--no fairy vow is spoken--From his trance he hath awoken, and once again is free;And gone is Una's palace, and vain the wild steed's malice,And again to gentle Alice down he wends through Céim-an-eich:The moon is calmly shining over mountain, stream, and tree,And the yellow sea-plants glisten through the sea.The sun his gold is flinging, the happy birds are singing,And bells are gaily ringing along Glengariff's sea;And crowds in many a galley to the happy marriage rallyOf the maiden of the valley and the youth of Céim-an-eich;Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask on bended kneeA blessing, gentle Alice, upon thee!

99The pass of Kéim-an-eigh (the path of the deer) lies to the south-west of Inchageela, in the direction of Bantry Bay.

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

101The Phooka is described as belonging to the malignant class of fairy beings, and he is as wild and capricious in his character as he is changeable in his form. At one time an eagle or anignis fatuus,at another a horse or a bull, while occasionally he figures as a compound of the calf and goat. When he assumes the form of a horse, his great object, according to a recent writer, seems to be to obtain a rider, and then he is in his most malignant glory.—See Croker's "Fairy Legends."

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

103Glashenglora, a mountain torrent, which finds its way into the Atlantic Ocean through Glengariff, in the west of the county of Cork. The name, literally translated, signifies "the noisy green water."—Barry's "Songs of Ireland," p. 173.

104There is a great square rock, literally resembling the description in the text, which stands near the Glengariff entrance to the pass of Céim-an-eich.

National Poems and Songs.ADVANCE!

God bade the sun with golden step sublime,Advance!He whispered in the listening ear of Time,Advance!He bade the guiding spirits of the stars,With lightning speed, in silver shining cars,Along the bright floor of his azure hall,Advance!Sun, stars, and time obey the voice, and allAdvance!The river at its bubbling fountain cries,Advance!The clouds proclaim, like heralds through the skies,Advance!Throughout the world the mighty Master's lawsAllow not one brief moment's idle pause;The earth is full of life, the swelling seedsAdvance!And summer hours, like flowery harnessed steeds,Advance!To man's most wondrous hand the same voice cried,Advance!Go clear the woods, and o'er the bounding tideAdvance!Go draw the marble from its secret bed,And make the cedar bend its giant head;Let domes and columns through the wondering airAdvance!The world, O man! is thine; but, wouldst thou share,Advance!Unto the soul of man the same voice spoke,Advance!From out the chaos, thunder-like, it broke,"Advance!Go track the comet in its wheeling race,And drag the lightning from its hiding-place;From out the night of ignorance and fears,Advance!For Love and Hope, borne by the coming years,Advance!"All heard, and some obeyed the great command,Advance!It passed along from listening land to land,Advance!The strong grew stronger, and the weak grew strong,As passed the war-cry of the world along--Awake, ye nations, know your powers and rights--Advance!Through hope and work to Freedom's new delights,Advance!Knowledge came down and waved her steady torch,Advance!Sages proclaimed 'neath many a marble porch,Advance!As rapid lightning leaps from peak to peak,The Gaul, the Goth, the Roman, and the Greek,The painted Briton caught the wingèd word,Advance!And earth grew young, and carolled as a bird,Advance!O Ireland! oh, my country, wilt thou notAdvance?Wilt thou not share the world's progressive lot?--Advance!Must seasons change, and countless years roll on,And thou remain a darksome Ajalon?And never see the crescent moon of HopeAdvance?'Tis time thine heart and eye had wider scope--Advance!Dear brothers, wake! look up! be firm! be strongAdvance!From out the starless night of fraud and wrongAdvance!The chains have fall'n from off thy wasted hands,And every man a seeming freedman stands;--But, ah! 'tis in the soul that freedom dwells,--Advance!Proclaim that there thou wearest no manacles;--Advance!Advance! thou must advance or perish now;--Advance!Advance! Why live with wasted heart and brow?--Advance!Advance! or sink at once into the grave;Be bravely free or artfully a slave!Why fret thy master, if thou must have one?Advance!Advance three steps, the glorious work is done;--Advance!The first is COURAGE--'tis a giant stride!--Advance!With bounding step up Freedom's rugged sideAdvance!KNOWLEDGE will lead thee to the dazzling heights,TOLERANCE will teach and guard thy brother's rights.Faint not! for thee a pitying Future waits--Advance!Be wise, be just, with will as fixed as Fate's,--Advance!

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