THE VALE OF SHANGANAH.16

When I have knelt in the temple of Duty,Worshipping honour and valour and beauty--When, like a brave man, in fearless resistance,I have fought the good fight on the field of existence;When a home I have won in the conflict of labour,With truth for my armour and thought for my sabre,Be that home a calm home where my old age may rally,A home full of peace in this sweet pleasant valley!Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna,Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah!Fair is this isle--this dear child of the ocean--Nurtured with more than a mother's devotion;For see! in what rich robes has nature arrayed her,From the waves of the west to the cliffs of Ben Hader,[17]By Glengariff's lone islets--Lough Lene's fairy water,[18]So lovely was each, that then matchless I thought her;But I feel, as I stray through each sweet-scented alley,Less wild but more fair is this soft verdant valley!Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!No wide-spreading prairie, no Indian savannah,So dear to the eye as the Vale of Shanganah!How pleased, how delighted, the rapt eye reposesOn the picture of beauty this valley discloses,From the margin of silver, whereon the blue waterDoth glance like the eyes of the ocean foam's daughter!To where, with the red clouds of morning combining,The tall "Golden Spears"[19] o'er the mountains are shining,With the hue of their heather, as sunlight advances,Like purple flags furled round the staffs of the lances!Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!No lands far away by the swift Susquehannah,So tranquil and fair as the Vale of Shanganah!But here, even here, the lone heart were benighted,No beauty could reach it, if love did not light it;'Tis this makes the earth, oh! what mortal could doubt it?A garden withit,but a desert without it!With the lov'd one, whose feelings instinctively teach herThat goodness of heart makes the beauty of feature.How glad, through this vale, would I float down life's river,Enjoying God's bounty, and blessing the Giver!Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah!May the accents of love, like the droppings of manna,Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah!

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

17Hill of Howth.

18Killarney.

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

THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND.

The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrously they standBy the lakes and rushing rivers through the valleys of our land;In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their heads sublime,These gray old pillar temples, these conquerors of time!Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing and weakThe Roman's arch of triumph, and the temple of the Greek,And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the pointed Gothic spires,All are gone, one by one, but the temples of our sires!The column, with its capital, is level with the dust,And the proud halls of the mighty and the calm homes of the just;For the proudest works of man, as certainly, but slower,Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of the mower!But the grass grows again when in majesty and mirth,On the wing of the spring, comes the Goddess of the Earth;But for man in this world no springtide e'er returnsTo the labours of his hands or the ashes of his urns!Two favourites hath Time--the pyramids of Nile,And the old mystic temples of our own dear isle;As the breeze o'er the seas, where the halcyon has its nest,Thus Time o'er Egypt's tombs and the temples of the West!The names of their founders have vanished in the gloom,Like the dry branch in the fire or the body in the tomb;But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still they cast--These temples of forgotten gods--these relics of the past!Around these walls have wandered the Briton and the Dane--The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of Spain--Phœnician and Milesian, and the plundering Norman Peers--And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the chiefs of later years!How many different rites have these gray old temples known!To the mind what dreams are written in these chronicles of stone!What terror and what error, what gleams of love and truth,Have flashed from these walls since the world was in its youth?Here blazed the sacred fire, and, when the sun was gone,As a star from afar to the traveller it shone;And the warm blood of the victim have these gray old temples drunk,And the death-song of the druid and the matin of the monk.Here was placed the holy chalice that held the sacred wine,And the gold cross from the altar, and the relics from the shrine,And the mitre shining brighter with its diamonds than the East,And the crosier of the pontiff and the vestments of the priest.Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the vesper bell,Where the fugitive found shelter, became the hermit's cell;And hope hung out its symbol to the innocent and good,For the cross o'er the moss of the pointed summit stood.There may it stand for ever, while that symbol doth impartTo the mind one glorious vision, or one proud throb to the heart;While the breast needeth rest may these gray old temples last,Bright prophets of the future, as preachers of the past!

OVER THE SEA.

Sad eyes! why are ye steadfastly gazingOver the sea?Is it the flock of the ocean-shepherd grazingLike lambs on the lea?--Is it the dawn on the orient billows blazingAllureth ye?Sad heart! why art thou tremblingly beating--What troubleth thee?There where the waves from the fathomless water come greeting,Wild with their glee!Or rush from the rocks, like a routed battalion retreating,Over the sea!Sad feet! why are ye constantly strayingDown by the sea?There, where the winds in the sandy harbour are playingChild-like and free,What is the charm, whose potent enchantment obeying,There chaineth ye?O! sweet is the dawn, and bright are the colours it glows in,Yet not to me!To the beauty of God's bright creation my bosom is frozen!Nought can I see,Since she has departed--the dear one, the loved one, the chosen,Over the sea!Pleasant it was when the billows did struggle and wrestle,Pleasant to see!Pleasant to climb the tall cliffs where the sea birds nestle,When near to thee!Nought can I now behold but the track of thy vesselOver the sea!Long as a Lapland winter, which no pleasant sunlight cheereth,The summer shall beVainly shall autumn be gay, in the rich robes it weareth,Vainly for me!No joy can I feel till the prow of thy vessel appearethOver the sea!Sweeter than summer, which tenderly, motherly bringethFlowers to the bee;Sweeter than autumn, which bounteously, lovingly flingethFruits on the tree,Shall be winter, when homeward returning, thy swift vessel wingethOver the sea!

OH! HAD I THE WINGS OF A BIRD.

Oh! had I the wings of a bird,To soar through the blue, sunny sky,By what breeze would my pinions be stirred?To what beautiful land should I fly?Would the gorgeous East allure,With the light of its golden eyes,Where the tall green palm, over isles of balm,Waves with its feathery leaves?Ah! no! no! no!I heed not its tempting glare;In vain should I roam from my island home,For skies more fair!Should I seek a southern sea,Italia's shore beside,Where the clustering grape from tree to treeHangs in its rosy pride?My truant heart, be still,For I long have sighed to strayThrough the myrtle flowers of fair Italy's bowers.By the shores of its southern bay.But no! no! no!Though bright be its sparkling seas,I never would roam from my island home,For charms like these!Should I seek that land so bright,Where the Spanish maiden roves,With a heart of love and an eye of light,Through her native citron groves?Oh! sweet would it be to restIn the midst of the olive vales,Where the orange blooms and the rose perfumesThe breath of the balmy gales!But no! no! no!--Though sweet be its wooing air,I never would roam from my island home,To scenes though fair!Should I pass from pole to pole?Should I seek the western skies,Where the giant rivers roll,And the mighty mountains rise?Or those treacherous isles that lieIn the midst of the sunny deeps,Where the cocoa stands on the glistening sands,And the dread tornado sweeps!Ah! no! no! no!They have no charms for me;I never would roam from my island home,Though poor it be!Poor!--oh! 'tis rich in allThat flows from Nature's hand;Rich in the emerald wallThat guards its emerald land!Are Italy's fields more green?Do they teem with a richer storeThan the bright green breast of the Isle of the West,And its wild, luxuriant shore?Ah! no! no! no!Upon it heaven doth smile;Oh, I never would roam from my native home,My own dear isle!

LOVE'S LANGUAGE.

Need I say how much I love thee?--Need my weak words tell,That I prize but heaven above thee,Earth not half so well?If this truth has failed to move thee,Hope away must flee;If thou dost not feel I love thee,Vain my words would be!Need I say how long I've sought thee--Need my words declare,Dearest, that I long have thought theeGood and wise and fair?If no sigh this truth has brought thee,Woe, alas! to me;Where thy own heart has not taught thee,Vain my words would be!Need I say when others wooed thee,How my breast did pine,Lest some fond heart that pursued theeDearer were than mine?If no pity then came to thee,Mixed with love for me,Vainly would my words imbue thee,Vain my words would be!Love's best language is unspoken,Yet how simply known;Eloquent is every token,Look, and touch, and tone.If thy heart hath not awoken,If not yet on theeLove's sweet silent light hath broken,Vain my words would be!Yet, in words of truest meaning,Simple, fond, and few;By the wild waves intervening,Dearest, I love you!Vain the hopes my heart is gleaning,If, long since to thee,My fond heart required unscreening,Vain my words will be!

THE FIRESIDE.

I have tasted all life's pleasures, I have snatched at all its joys,The dance's merry measures and the revel's festive noise;Though wit flashed bright the live-long night, and flowed the ruby tide,I sighed for thee, I sighed for thee, my own fireside!In boyhood's dreams I wandered far across the ocean's breast,In search of some bright earthly star, some happy isle of rest;I little thought the bliss I sought in roaming far and wideWas sweetly centred all in thee, my own fireside!How sweet to turn at evening's close from all our cares away,And end in calm, serene repose, the swiftly passing day!The pleasant books, the smiling looks of sister or of bride,All fairy ground doth make around one's own fireside!"My Lord" would never condescend to honour my poor hearth;"His Grace" would scorn a host or friend of mere plebeian birth;And yet the lords of human kind, whom man has deified,For ever meet in converse sweet around my fireside!The poet sings his deathless songs, the sage his lore repeats,The patriot tells his country's wrongs, the chief his warlike feats;Though far away may be their clay, and gone their earthly pride,Each god-like mind in books enshrined still haunts my fireside!Oh, let me glance a moment through the coming crowd of years,Their triumphs or their failures, their sunshine or their tears;How poor or great may be my fate, I care not what betide,So peace and love but hallow thee, my own fireside!Still let me hold the vision close, and closer to my sight;Still, still, in hopes elysian, let my spirit wing its flight;Still let me dream, life's shadowy stream may yield from out its tide,A mind at rest, a tranquil breast, a quiet fireside!

THE BANISHED SPIRIT'S SONG.20

Beautiful clime, where I've dwelt so long,In mirth and music, in gladness and song!Fairer than aught upon earth art thou--Beautiful clime, must I leave thee now?No more shall I join the circle brightOf my sister nymphs, when they dance at nightIn their grottos cool and their pearly halls,When the glowworm hangs on the ivy walls!No more shall I glide o'er the waters blue,With a crimson shell for my light canoe,Or a rose-leaf plucked from the neighbouring trees,Piloted o'er by the flower-fed breeze!Oh! must I leave those spicy gales,Those purple hills and those flowery vales?Where the earth is strewed with pansy and rose,And the golden fruit of the orange grows!Oh! must I leave this region fair,For a world of toil and a life of care?In its dreary paths how long must I roam,Far away from my fairy home?The song of birds and the hum of bees,And the breath of flowers, are on the breeze;The purple plum and the cone-like pear,Drooping, hang in the rosy air!The fountains scatter their pearly rainOn the thirsty flowers and the ripening grain;The insects sport in the sunny beam,And the golden fish in the laughing stream.The Naiads dance by the river's edge,On the low, soft moss and the bending sedge;Wood-nymphs and satyrs and graceful fawnsSport in the woods, on the grassy lawns!The slanting sunbeams tip with goldThe emerald leaves in the forests old--But I must away from this fairy scene,Those leafy woods and those valleys green!

20Written in early youth.

REMEMBRANCE.

With that pleasant smile thou wearest,Thou art gazing on the fairestWonders of the earth and sea:Do thou not, in all thy seeing,Lose the mem'ry of one beingWho at home doth think of thee.In the capital of nations,Sun of all earth's constellations,Thou art roaming glad and free:Do thou not, in all thy roving,Lose the mem'ry of one lovingHeart at home that beats for thee.Strange eyes around thee glisten,To a strange tongue thou dost listen,Strangers bend the suppliant knee:Do thou not, for all their seemingTruth, forget the constant beamingEyes at home that watch for thee.Stately palaces surround thee,Royal parks and gardens bound thee--Gardens of theFleur de Lis:Do thou not, for all their splendour,Quite forget the humble, tenderThoughts at home, that turn to thee.When, at length of absence weary,When the year grows sad and dreary,And an east wind sweeps the sea;Ere the days of dark November,Homeward turn, and then rememberHearts at home that pine for thee!

THE CLAN OF MAC CAURA.21

Oh! bright are the names of the chieftains and sages,That shine like the stars through the darkness of ages,Whose deeds are inscribed on the pages of story,There for ever to live in the sunshine of glory,Heroes of history, phantoms of fable,Charlemagne's champions, and Arthur's Round Table;Oh! but they all a new lustre could borrowFrom the glory that hangs round the name of MacCaura!Thy waves, Manzanares, wash many a shrine,And proud are the castles that frown o'er the Rhine,And stately the mansions whose pinnacles glanceThrough the elms of Old England and vineyards of France;Many have fallen, and many will fall,Good men and brave men have dwelt in them all,But as good and as brave men, in gladness and sorrow,Have dwelt in the halls of the princely MacCaura!Montmorency, Medina, unheard was thy rankBy the dark-eyed Iberian and light-hearted Frank,And your ancestors wandered, obscure and unknown,By the smooth Guadalquiver and sunny Garonne.Ere Venice had wedded the sea, or enrolledThe name of a Doge in her proud "Book of Gold;"When her glory was all to come on like the morrow,There were the chieftains and kings of the clan of MacCaura!Proud should thy heart beat, descendant of Heber,[22]Lofty thy head as the shrines of the Guebre,[23]Like them are the halls of thy forefathers shattered,Like theirs is the wealth of thy palaces scattered.Their fire is extinguished--thy banner long furled--But how proud were ye both in the dawn of the world!And should both fade away, oh! what heart would not sorrowO'er the towers of the Guebre--the name of MacCaura!What a moment of glory to cherish and dream on,When far o'er the sea came the ships of Heremon,With Heber, and Ir, and the Spanish patricians,To free Inisfail from the spells of magicians.[24]Oh! reason had these for their quaking and pallor,For what magic can equal the strong sword of valour?Better than spells are the axe and the arrow,When wielded or flung by the hand of MacCaura!From that hour a MacCaura had reigned in his prideO'er Desmond's green valleys and rivers so wide,From thy waters, Lismore, to the torrents and rillsThat are leaping for ever down Brandon's brown hills;The billows of Bantry, the meadows of Bear,The wilds of Evaugh, and the groves of Glancare,From the Shannon's soft shores to the banks of the Barrow,All owned the proud sway of the princely MacCaura!In the house of Miodchuart,[25] by princes surrounded,How noble his step when the trumpet was sounded,And his clansmen bore proudly his broad shield before him,And hung it on high in that bright palace o'er him;On the left of the monarch the chieftain was seated,And happy was he whom his proud glances greeted:'Mid monarchs and chiefs at the great Fes of Tara,Oh! none was to rival the princely MacCaura!To the halls of the Red Branch,[26] when the conquest was o'er,The champions their rich spoils of victory bore,And the sword of the Briton, the shield of the Dane,Flashed bright as the sun on the walls of Eamhain;There Dathy and Niall bore trophies of war,From the peaks of the Alps and the waves of Loire;But no knight ever bore from the hills of IvaraghThe breast-plate or axe of a conquered MacCaura!In chasing the red deer what step was the fleetest?--In singing the love song what voice was the sweetest?--What breast was the foremost in courting the danger?--What door was the widest to shelter the stranger?--In friendship the truest, in battle the bravest,In revel the gayest, in council the gravest?--A hunter to-day and a victor to-morrow?--Oh! who but a chief of the princely MacCaura!But, oh! proud MacCaura, what anguish to touch onThe fatal stain of thy princely escutcheon;In thy story's bright garden the one spot of bleakness,Through ages of valour the one hour of weakness!Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred and royal--Thou to kneel to the Norman and swear to be loyal!Oh! a long night of horror, and outrage, and sorrow,Have we wept for thy treason, base Diarmid MacCaura![27]Oh! why ere you thus to the foreigner pandered,Did you not bravely call round your emerald standard,The chiefs of your house of Lough Lene and Clan AwleyO'Donogh, MacPatrick, O'Driscoll, MacAwley,O'Sullivan More, from the towers of Dunkerron,And O'Mahon, the chieftain of green Ardinterran?As the sling sends the stone or the bent bow the arrow,Every chief would have come at the call of MacCaura.Soon, soon didst thou pay for that error in woe,Thy life to the Butler, thy crown to the foe,Thy castles dismantled, and strewn on the sod,And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys of God!No more in thy halls is the wayfarer fed,Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft heather spread,Nor theclairsech'ssweet notes, now in mirth, now in sorrow,All, all have gone by, but the name of MacCaura!MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by,But its name cannot fade, and its fame cannot die,Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves, shineAround no green forests or castles of thine--Though the shrines that you founded no incense doth hallow,Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing Allo,One treasure thou keepest, one hope for the morrow--True hearts yet beat of the clan of MacCaura!

21MacCarthaig, or MacCarthy.

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

23The Round Towers.

24The Tuatha Dedannans, so called, says Keating, from their skill in necromancy, for which some were so famous as to be called gods.

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

26In the palace of Emania, in Ulster.

27Diarmid MacCaura, King of Desmond, and Daniel O'Brien, King of Thomond, were the first of the Irish princes to swear fealty to Henry II.

THE WINDOW.

At my window, late and early,In the sunshine and the rain,When the jocund beams of morningCome to wake me from my napping,With their golden fingers tappingAt my window pane:From my troubled slumbers flitting,From the dreamings fond and vain,From the fever intermitting,Up I start, and take my sittingAt my window pane:--Through the morning, through the noontide,Fettered by a diamond chain,Through the early hours of evening,When the stars begin to tremble,As their shining ranks assembleO'er the azure plain:When the thousand lamps are blazingThrough the street and lane--Mimic stars of man's upraising--Still I linger, fondly gazingFrom my window pane!For, amid the crowds slow passing,Surging like the main,Like a sunbeam among shadows,Through the storm-swept cloudy masses,Sometimes one bright being passes'Neath my window pane:Thus a moment's joy I borrowFrom a day of pain.See, she comes! but--bitter sorrow!Not until the slow to-morrow,Will she come again.

AUTUMN FEARS.

The weary, dreary, dripping rain,From morn till night, from night till morn,Along the hills and o'er the plain,Strikes down the green and yellow corn;The flood lies deep upon the ground,No ripening heat the cold sun yields,And rank and rotting lies aroundThe glory of the summer fields!How full of fears, how racked with pain,How torn with care the heart must be,Of him who sees his golden grainLaid prostrate thus o'er lawn and lea;For all that nature doth desire,All that the shivering mortal shields,The Christmas fare, the winter's fire,All comes from out the summer fields.I too have strayed in pleasing toilAlong youth's and fertile meads;I too within Hope's genial soilHave, trusting, placed Love's golden seeds;I too have feared the chilling dew,The heavy rain when thunder pealed,Lest Fate might blight the flower that grewFor me in Hope's green summer field.Ah! who can paint that beauteous flower,Thus nourished by celestial dew,Thus growing fairer, hour by hour,Delighting more, the more it grew;Bright'ning, not burdening the ground,Nor proud with inward worth concealed,But scattering all its fragrance roundIts own sweet sphere, its summer field!At morn the gentle flower awoke,And raised its happy face to God;At evening, when the starlight broke,It bending sought the dewy sod;And thus at morn, and thus at even,In fragrant sighs its heart revealed,Thus seeking heaven, and making heavenWithin its own sweet summer field!Oh! joy beyond all human joy!Oh! bliss beyond all earthly bliss!If pitying Fate will not destroyMy hopes of such a flower as this!How happy, fond, and heaven-possest,My heart will be to tend and shield,And guard upon my grateful breastThe pride of that sweet summer field!

FATAL GIFTS.

The poet's heart is a fatal boon,And fatal his wondrous eye,And the delicate ear,So quick to hear,Over the earth and sky,Creation's mystic tune!Soon, soon, but not too soon,Does that ear grow deaf and that eye grow dim,And nature becometh a waste for him,Whom, born for another sphere,Misery hath shipwrecked here!For what availeth his sensitive heartFor the struggle and stormy strifeThat the mariner-man,Since the world beganHas braved on the sea of life?With fearful wonder his eye doth start,When it should be fixed on the outspread chartThat pointeth the way to golden shores--Rent are his sails and broken his oars,And he sinks without hope or plan,With his floating caravan.And love, that should be his strength and stay,Becometh his bane full soon,Like flowers that are bornOf the beams at morn,But die of their heat ere noon.Far better the heart were the sterile clayWhere the shining sands of the desert play,And where never the perishing flow'ret gleamsThan the heart that is fed with its wither'd dreams,And whose love is repelled with scorn,Like the bee by the rose's thorn.

SWEET MAY.

The summer is come!--the summer is come!With its flowers and its branches green,Where the young birds chirp on the blossoming boughs,And the sunlight struggles between:And, like children, over the earth and skyThe flowers and the light clouds play;But never before to my heart or eyeCame there ever so sweet a MayAs this--Sweet May! sweet May!Oh! many a time have I wandered outIn the youth of the opening year,When Nature's face was fair to my eye,And her voice was sweet to my ear!When I numbered the daisies, so few and shy,That I met in my lonely way;But never before to my heart or eye,Came there ever so sweet a MayAs this--Sweet May! sweet May!If the flowers delayed, or the beams were cold,Or the blossoming trees were bare,I had but to look in the poet's book,For the summer is always there!But the sunny page I now put by,And joy in the darkest day!For never before to my heart or eye,Came there ever so sweet a MayAs this--Sweet May! sweet May!For, ah! the belovéd at length has come,Like the breath of May from afar;And my heart is lit with gentle eyes,As the heavens by the evening star.'Tis this that brightens the darkest sky,And lengthens the faintest ray,And makes me feel that to the heart or eyeThere was never so sweet a MayAs this--Sweet May! sweet May!

FERDIAH;28OR, THE FIGHT AT THE FORD.An Episode from the Ancient Irish Epic Romance,"The Tain Bó Cuailgné; or, the Cattle Prey of Cuailgné."

An Episode from the Ancient Irish Epic Romance,"The Tain Bó Cuailgné; or, the Cattle Prey of Cuailgné."

["TheTain Bó Cuailgné" says the late Professor O'Curry, "is to Irish what the Argonautic Expedition, or the Seven against Thebes, is to Grecian history." For an account of this, perhaps the earliest epic romance of Western Europe, see the Professor's "Lectures on the Manuscript Materials of Irish History."

The Fight of Cuchullin with Ferdiah took place in the modern county of Louth, at the ford of Ardee, which still preserves the name of the departed champion, Ardee being the softened form ofAth Ferdiah,or Ferdiah's Ford.

The circumstances under which this famous combat took place are thus succinctly mentioned by O'Curry, in his description of theTain Bó Cuailgné:—

"Cuchulainn confronts the invaders of his province, demands single combat, and conjures his opponents by the laws of Irish chivalry (theFir comhlainn) not to advance farther until they had conqueredhim.This demand, in accordance with the Irish laws of warfare, is granted; and then the whole contest is resolved into a succession of single combats, in each of which Cuchulainn was victorious."—"Lectures," p. 37.

The original Irish text of this episode, with a literal translation, on which the present metrical version is founded, may be consulted in the appendix to the second series of the Lectures by O'Curry, vol. ii., p. 413.

The date assigned to the famous expedition of theTain Bó Cuailgné,and consequently to the episode which forms the subject of the present poem, is the close of the century immediately preceding the commencement of the Christian era. This will account for the complete absence of all Christian allusions, so remarkable throughout the poem: an additional proof, if that were required, of its extreme antiquity.]

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