THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN.

THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN.A.D.545.

[We are informed that Brendan, hearing of the previous voyage of his cousin, Barinthus, in the western ocean, and obtaining an account from him of the happy isles he had landed on in the far west, determined, under the strong desire of winning heathen souls to Christ, to undertake a voyage of discovery himself.Â And aware that all along the western coast of Ireland there were many traditions respecting the existence of a western land, he proceeded to the islands of Arran, and there remained for some time, holding communication with the venerable St. Enda, and obtaining from him much information relating to his voyage.Â Having prosecuted his inquiries with diligence, Brendan returned to his native Kerry; and from a bay sheltered by the lofty mountain that is now known by his name, he set sail for the Atlantic land; and, directing his course towards the south-west, in order to meet the summer solstice, or what we should call the tropic, after a long and rough voyage, his little bark being well provisioned, he came to summer seas, where he was carried along, without the aid of sail or oar, for many a long day.Â This, which it is to be presumed was the great gulf-stream, brought his vessel to shore somewhere about the Virginian capes, or where the American coast tends eastward, and forms the New England States.Â Here landing, he and his companions marched steadily into the interior for fifteen days, and then came to a large river, flowing from east to west: this, evidently, was the river Ohio.Â And this the holy adventurer was about to cross, when he was accosted by a person of noble presenceâ€”but whether a real or visionary man does not appearâ€”who told him he had gone far enough; that further discoveries were reserved for other men, who would, in due time, come and Christianise all that pleasant land.Â It is said he remained seven years away, and returned to set up a college of three thousand monks, at Clonfert.â€”CÃ¦sar Otway's Sketches in Erris and Tyrawley,note, pp. 98, 99.]

THEVOCATION.

[When St. Brendan was an infant, says Colgan, he was placed under the care of St. Ita, and remained with her five years, after which period he was led away by Bishop Ercus in order to receive from him the more solid instruction necessary for his advancing years.Â Brendan always retained the greatest respect and affection for his foster-mother, and he is represented, after his seven years' voyage, amusing St. Ita with an account of his adventures in the ocean.]

O Ita, mother of my heart and mind--My nourisher, my fosterer, my friend,Who taught me first to God's great will resigned,Before his shining altar-steps to bend;Who poured his word upon my soul like balm,And on mine eyes what pious fancy paints--And on mine ear the sweetly swelling psalm,And all the sacred knowledge of the saints;To whom but thee, dear mother, should be toldOf all the wonders I have seen afar?--Islands more green and suns of brighter goldThan this dear land or yonder blazing star;Of hills that bear the fruit-trees on their tops,And seas that dimple with eternal smiles;Of airs from heaven that fan the golden crops,O'er the great ocean 'mid the blessed isles!Thou knowest, O my mother! how to theeThe blessed Ercus led me when a boy,And how within thine arms and at thine knee,I learned the lore that death cannot destroy;And how I parted hence with bitter tears,And felt, when turning from thy friendly door,In the reality of ripening years,My paradise of childhood was no more.I wept--but not with sin such tear-drops flow;--I sighed--for earthly things with heaven entwine;Tears make the harvest of the heart to grow,And love though human is almost divine.The heart that loves not knows not how to pray;The eye can never smile that never weeps:'Tis through our sighs hope's kindling sunbeams playAnd through our tears the bow of promise peeps.I grew to manhood by the western wave,Among the mighty mountains on the shore:My bed the rock within some natural cave,My food whate'er the seas or seasons bore:My occupation, morn and noon and night:The only dream my hasty slumbers gave,Was Time's unheeding, unreturning flight,And the great world that lies beyond the grave.And thus, where'er I went, all things to meAssumed the one deep colour of my mind;Great nature's prayer rose from the murmuring sea,And sinful man sighed in the wintry wind.The thick-veiled clouds by shedding many a tear,Like penitents, grew purified and bright,And, bravely struggling through earth's atmosphere,Passed to the regions of eternal light.I loved to watch the clouds now dark and dun,In long procession and funeral line,Pass with slow pace across the glorious sun,Like hooded monks before a dazzling shrine.And now with gentler beauty as they rolledAlong the azure vault in gladsome May,Gleaming pure white, and edged with broidered gold,Like snowy vestments on the Virgin's day.And then I saw the mighty sea expandLike Time's unmeasured and unfathomed waves,One with its tide-marks on the ridgy sand,The other with its line of weedy graves;And as beyond the outstretched wave of time,The eye of Faith a brighter land may meet,So did I dream of some more sunny climeBeyond the waste of waters at my feet.Some clime where man, unknowing and unknown,For God's refreshing word still gasps and faints;Or happier rather some Elysian zone,Made for the habitation of his saints:Where Nature's love the sweat of labour spares,Nor turns to usury the wealth it lends,Where the rich soil spontaneous harvest bears,And the tall tree with milk-filled clusters bends.The thought grew stronger with my growing days,Even like to manhood's strengthening mind and limb,And often now amid the purple hazeThat evening breathed upon the horizon's rim--Methought, as there I sought my wished-for home,I could descry amid the waters green,Full many a diamond shrine and golden dome,And crystal palaces of dazzling sheen.And then I longed, with impotent desire,Even for the bow whereby the Python bled,That I might send on dart of the living fireInto that land, before the vision fled,And thus at length fix the enchanted shore,Hy-Brasail, Eden of the western wave!That thou again wouldst fade away no more,Buried and lost within thy azure grave.But angels came and whispered as I dreamt,"This is no phantom of a frenzied brain--God shows this land from time to time to temptSome daring mariner across the main:By thee the mighty venture must be made,By thee shall myriad souls to Christ be won!Arise, depart, and trust to God for aid!"I woke, and kneeling, cried, "His will be done!"

ARA OF THESAINTS.53

Hearing how blessed Enda lived apart,Amid the sacred caves of Ara-mhor,And how beneath his eye, spread like a chart,Lay all the isles of that remotest shore;And how he had collected in his mindAll that was known to man of the Old Sea,[54]I left the Hill of Miracles[55] behind,And sailed from out the shallow, sandy Leigh.Betwixt the Samphire Isles swam my light skiff,And like an arrow flew through Fenor Sound,Swept by the pleasant strand, and the tall cliff,Whereon the pale rose amethysts are found.Rounded Moyferta's rocky point, and crossedThe mouth of stream-streaked Erin's mightiest tide,Whose troubled waves break o'er the City lost,Chafed by the marble turrets that they hide.Beneath Ibrickan's hills, moory and tame,And Inniscaorach's caves, so wild and dark,I sailed along.Â The white-faced otter came,And gazed in wonder on my floating bark.The soaring gannet, perched upon my mast,And the proud bird, that flies but o'er the sea,Wheeled o'er my head: and the girrinna passedUpon the branch of some life-giving tree.[56]Leaving the awful cliffs of Corcomroe,I sought the rocky eastern isle, that bearsThe name of blessed Coemhan, who doth showPity unto the storm-tossed seaman's prayers;Then crossing Bealach-na-fearbach's treacherous sound,I reached the middle isle, whose citadelLooks like a monarch from its throne around;And there I rested by St. Kennerg's well.Again I sailed, and crossed the stormy soundThat lies beneath Binn-Aite's rocky height--And there, upon the shore, the Saint I foundWaiting my coming though the tardy night.He led me to his home beside the wave,Where, with his monks, the pious father dwelled,And to my listening ear he freely gaveThe sacred knowledge that his bosom held.When I proclaimed the project that I nursed,How 'twas for this that I his blessing sought,An irrepressible cry of joy outburstFrom his pure lips, that blessed me for the thought.He said that he, too, had in visions strayedOver the untracked ocean's billowy foam;Bid me have hope, that God would give me aid,And bring me safe back to my native home.Oft, as we paced that marble-covered land,Would blessed Enda tell me wondrous tales--How, for the children of his love, the handOf the Omnipotent Father never fails--How his own sister,[57] standing by the sideOf the great sea, which bore no human bark,Spread her light cloak upon the conscious tide,And sailed thereon securely as an ark.And how the winds become the willing slavesOf those who labour in the work of God;And how Scothinus walked upon the waves,Which seemed to him the meadow's verdant sod.How he himself came hither with his flock,To teach the infidels from Corcomroe,Upon the floating breast of the hard rock,Which lay upon the glistening sands below.But not alone of miracles and joysWould Enda speak--he told me of his dream;When blessed Kieran went to Clonmacnois,To found the sacred churches by the stream--How he did weep to see the angels fleeAway from Arran as a place accursed;And men tear up the island-shading tree,Out of the soil from which it sprung at first.At length I tore me from the good man's sight,And o'er Loch Lurgan's mouth[58] took my lone way,Which, in the sunny morning's golden light,Shone like the burning lake of LassarÃ¦;Now 'neath heaven's frown--and now, beneath its smile--Borne on the tide, or driven before the gale;And, as I passed MacDara's sacred Isle,Thrice bowed my mast, and thrice let down my sail.Westward of Arran as I sailed away;I saw the fairest sight eye can behold--Rocks which, illumined by the morning's ray,Seemed like a glorious city built of gold.Men moved along each sunny shining street,Fires seemed to blaze, and curling smoke to rise,When lo! the city vanished, and a fleet,With snowy sails, rose on my ravished eyes.Thus having sought for knowledge and for strength,For the unheard-of voyage that I planned,I left these myriad isles, and turned at lengthSouthward my bark, and sought my native land.There made I all things ready, day by day,The wicker-boat, with ox-skins covered o'er--Chose the good monks companions of my way,And waited for the wind to leave the shore.

THEVOYAGE.

At length the long-expected morning came,When from the opening arms of that wild bay,Beneath the hill that bears my humble name,Over the waves we took our untracked way;Sweetly the morning lay on tarn and rill,Gladly the waves played in its golden light,And the proud top of the majestic hillShone in the azure air, serene and bright.Over the sea we flew that sunny morn,Not without natural tears and human sighs:For who can leave the land where he was born,And where, perchance, a buried mother lies;Where all the friends of riper manhood dwell,And where the playmates of his childhood sleep:Who can depart, and breathe a cold farewell,Nor let his eyes their honest tribute weep?Our little bark, kissing the dimpled smilesOn ocean's cheek, flew like a wanton bird,And then the land, with all its hundred isles,Faded away, and yet we spoke no word.Each silent tongue held converse with the past,Each moistened eye looked round the circling wave,And, save the spot where stood our trembling mast,Saw all things hid within one mighty grave.We were alone, on the wide watery waste--Nought broke its bright monotony of blue,Save where the breeze the flying billows chased,Or where the clouds their purple shadows threw.We were alone--the pilgrims of the sea--One boundless azure desert round us spread;No hope, no trust, no strength, except in THEE,Father, who once the pilgrim-people led.And when the bright-faced sun resigned his throneUnto the Ethiop queen, who rules the night,Who with her pearly crown and starry zone,Fills the dark dome of heaven with silvery light;--As on we sailed, beneath her milder sway,And felt within our hearts her holier power,We ceased from toil, and humbly knelt to pray,And hailed with vesper hymns the tranquil hour!For then, indeed, the vaulted heavens appearedA fitting shrine to hear their Maker's praise,Such as no human architect has reared,Where gems, and gold, and precious marbles blaze.What earthly temple such a roof can boast?--What flickering lamp with the rich starlight vies,When the round moon rests, like the sacred Host,Upon the azure altar of the skies?We breathed aloud the Christian's filial prayer,Which makes us brothers even with the Lord;Our Father, cried we, in the midnight air,In heaven and earth be thy great name adored;May thy bright kingdom, where the angels are,Replace this fleeting world, so dark and dim.And then, with eyes fixed on some glorious star,We sang the Virgin-Mother's vesper hymn!Hail, brightest star! that o'er life's troubled seaShines pitying down from heaven's elysian blue!Mother and Maid, we fondly look to thee,Fair gate of bliss, where heaven beams brightly through.Star of the morning! guide our youthful days,Shine on our infant steps in life's long race,Star of the evening! with thy tranquil rays,Gladden the aged eyes that seek thy face.Hail, sacred Maid! thou brighter, better Eve,Take from our eyes the blinding scales of sin;Within our hearts no selfish poison leave,For thou the heavenly antidote canst win.O sacred Mother! 'tis to thee we run--Poor children, from this world's oppressive strife;Ask all we need from thy immortal Son,Who drank of death, that we might taste of life.Hail, spotless Virgin! mildest, meekest maid--Hail! purest Pearl that time's great sea hath borne--May our white souls, in purity arrayed,Shine, as if they thy vestal robes had worn;Make our hearts pure, as thou thyself art pure,Make safe the rugged pathway of our lives,And make us pass to joys that will endureWhen the dark term of mortal life arrives.[59]'Twas thus, in hymns, and prayers, and holy psalms,Day tracking day, and night succeeding night,Now driven by tempests, now delayed by calms,Along the sea we winged our varied flight.Oh! how we longed and pined for sight of land!Oh! how we sighed for the green pleasant fields!Compared with the cold waves, the barest strand--The bleakest rock--a crop of comfort yields.Sometimes, indeed, when the exhausted gale,In search of rest, beneath the waves would flee,Like some poor wretch who, when his strength doth fail,Sinks in the smooth and unsupporting sea:Then would the Brothers draw from memory's storeSome chapter of life's misery or bliss,Some trial that some saintly spirit bore,Or else some tale of passion, such as this:

THEBURIEDCITY.

[The peasants who live near the mouth of the Shannon point to a part of the river within the headlands over which the tides rush with extraordinary rapidity and violence.Â They say it is the site of a lost city, long buried beneath the waves.â€”See Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii. p. 436.]

Beside that giant stream that foams and swellsBetwixt Hy-Conaill and Moyarta's shore,And guards the isle where good Senanus dwells,A gentle maiden dwelt in days of yore.She long has passed out of Time's aching womb,And breathes Eternity's favonian air;Yet fond Tradition lingers o'er her tomb,And paints her glorious features as they were:--Her smile was Eden's pure and stainless light,Which never cloud nor earthly vapour mars;Her lustrous eyes were like the noon of night--Black, but yet brightened by a thousand stars;Her tender form, moulded in modest grace,Shrank from the gazer's eye, and moved apart;Heaven shone reflected in her angel face,And God reposed within her virgin heart.She dwelt in green Moyarta's pleasant land,Beneath the graceful hills of Clonderlaw,--Sweet sunny hills, whose triple summits stand,One vast tiara over stream and shaw.Almost in solitude the maiden grew,And reached her early budding woman's prime;And all so noiselessly the swift time flew,She knew not of the name or flight of Time.And thus, within her modest mountain nest,This gentle maiden nestled like a dove,Offering to God from her pure innocent breastThe sweet and silent incense of her love.No selfish feeling nor presumptuous prideIn her calm bosom waged unnatural strife;Saint of her home and hearth, she sanctifiedThe thousand trivial common cares of life.Upon the opposite shore there dwelt a youth,Whose nature's woof was woven of good and ill--Whose stream of life flowed to the sea of truth,But in a devious course, round many a hill--Now lingering through a valley of delight,Where sweet flowers bloomed, and summer songbirds sung,Now hurled along the dark, tempestuous night,With gloomy, treeless mountains overhung.He sought the soul of Beauty throughout space,Knowledge he tracked through many a vanished age:For one he scanned fair Nature's radiant face,And for the other, Learning's shrivelled page.If Beauty sent some fair apostle down,Or Knowledge some great teacher of her lore,Bearing the wreath of rapture and the crown,He knelt to love, to learn, and to adore.Full many a time he spread his little sail,How rough the river, or how dark the skies,Gave his light corrach to the angry gale,And crossed the stream to gaze on Ethna's eyes.As yet 'twas worship, more than human love,That hopeless adoration that we payUnto some glorious planet throned above,Through severed from its crystal sphere for aye.But warmer love an easy conquest won,The more he came to green Moyarta's bowers;Even as the earth, by gazing on the sun,In summer-time puts forth her myriad flowers.The yearnings of his heart--vague, undefined--Wakened and solaced by ideal gleams,Took everlasting shape, and intertwinedAround this incarnation of his dreams.Some strange fatality restrained his tongue--He spoke not of the love that filled his breast;The thread of hope, on which his whole life hung,Was far too weak to bear so strong a test.He trusted to the future--time, or chance--His constant homage and assiduous care;Preferred to dream, and lengthen out his trance,Rather than wake to knowledge and despair.And thus she knew not, when the youth would lookUpon some pictured chronicle of eld,In every blazoned letter of the bookOne fairest face was all that he beheld:And where the limner, with consummate art,Drew flowing lines and quaint devices rare,The wildered youth, by looking from the heart,Saw nought but lustrous eyes and waving hair.He soon was startled from his dreams, for now--'Twas said, obedient to a heavenly call--His life of life would take the vestal vow,In one short month, within a convent's wall.He heard the tidings with a sickening fear,But quickly had the sudden faintness flown,And vowed, though heaven or hell should interfere,Ethna--his Ethna--should be his alone!He sought his boat, and snatched the feathery oar--It was the first and brightest morn of May:The white-winged clouds, that sought the northern shore,Seemed but Love's guides, to point him out the way.The great old river heaved its mighty heart,And, with a solemn sigh, went calmly on;As if of all his griefs it felt a part,But know they should be borne, and so had gone.Slowly his boat the languid breeze obeyed,Although the stream that that light burden boreWas like the level path the angels made,Through the rough sea, to Arran's blessed shore;And from the rosy clouds the light airs fanned,And from the rich reflection that they gave,Like good Scothinus, had he reached his hand,He might have plucked a garland from the wave.And now the noon in purple splendour blazed,The gorgeous clouds in slow procession filed;The youth leaned o'er with listless eyes and gazedDown through the waves on which the blue heavens smiled:What sudden fear his gasping breath doth drown!What hidden wonder fires his startled eyes!Down in the deep, full many a fathom down,A great and glorious city buried lies.Not like those villages with rude-built walls,That raise their humble roofs round every coast,But holding marble basilics and halls,Such as imperial Rome herself might boast.There was the palace and the poor man's home,And upstart glitter and old-fashioned gloom,The spacious porch, the nicely rounded dome,The hero's column, and the martyr's tomb.There was the cromleach with its circling stones;There the green rath and the round narrow tower;There was the prison whence the captive's groansHad many a time moaned in the midnight hour.Beneath the graceful arch the river flowed,Around the walls the sparkling waters ran,The golden chariot rolled along the road--All, all was there except the face of man.The wondering youth had neither thought nor word,He felt alone the power and will to die;His little bark seemed like an outstretched bird,Floating along that city's azure sky.It joyed that youth the battle's storm to brave,And yet he would have perished with affright,Had not the breeze, rippling the lucid wave,Concealed the buried city from his sight.He reached the shore; the rumour was too true--Ethna--his Ethna--would be God's aloneIn one brief month; for which the maid withdrew,To seek for strength before his blessed throne.Was it the fire that on his bosom preyed,Or the temptation of the Fiend abhorred,That made him vow to snatch the white-veiled maidEven from the very altar of her Lord?The first of June, that festival of flowers,Came, like a goddess, o'er the meadows green!And all the children of the spring-tide showersRose from their grassy beds to hail their Queen.A song of joy, a pÃ¦an of delight,Rose from the myriad life in the tall grass,When the young Dawn, fresh from the sleep of night,Glanced at her blushing face in Ocean's glass.Ethna awoke--a second--brighter dawn--Her mother's fondling voice breathed in her ear;Quick from her couch she started as a fawnBounds from the heather when her dam is near.Each clasped the other in a long embrace--Each know the other's heart did beat and bleed--Each kissed the warm tears from the other's face,And gave the consolation she did need.Oh! bitterest sacrifice the heart can make--That of a mother of her darling child--That of a child, who, for her Saviour's sake,Leaves the fond face that o'er her cradle smiled.They who may think that God doth never needSo great, so sad a sacrifice as this,While they take glory in their easier creed,Will feel and own the sacrifice it is.All is prepared--the sisters in the choir--The mitred abbot on his crimson throne--The waxen tapers, with their pallid firePoured o'er the sacred cup and altar-stone--The upturned eyes, glistening with pious tears--The censer's fragrant vapour floating o'er;Now all is hushed, for, lo! the maid appears,Entering with solemn step the sacred door.She moved as moves the moon, radiant and pale,Through the calm night, wrapped in a silvery cloud;The jewels of her dress shone through her veil,As shine the stars through their thin vaporous shroud;The brighter jewels of her eyes were hidBeneath their smooth white caskets arching o'er,Which, by the trembling of each ivory lid,Seemed conscious of the treasures that they bore.She reached the narrow porch and the tall door,Her trembling foot upon the sill was placed--Her snowy veil swept the smooth-sanded floor--Her cold hands chilled the bosom they embraced.Who is this youth, whose forehead, like a book,Bears many a deep-traced character of pain?Who looks for pardon as the damned may look--That ever pray, and know they pray in vain.'Tis he, the wretched youth--the Demon's prey;One sudden bound, and he is at her side--One piercing shriek, and she has swooned away,Dim are her eyes, and cold her heart's warm tide.Horror and terror seize the startled crowd;The sinewy hands are nerveless with affright;When, as the wind beareth a summer cloud,The youth bears off the maiden from their sight.Close to the place the stream rushed roaring by,His little boat lay moored beneath the bank,Hid from the shore, and from the gazer's eye,By waving reeds and water-willows dank.Hither, with flying feet and glowing brow,He fled, as quick as fancies in a dream--Placed the insensate maiden in the prow--Pushed from the shore, and gained the open stream.Scarce had he left the river's foamy edge,When sudden darkness fell on hill and plain;The angry sun, shocked at the sacrilege,Fled from the heavens with all his golden train;The stream rushed quicker, like a man afeared;Down swept the storm and clove its breast of green,And though the calm and brightness reappearedThe youth and maiden never more were seen.Whether the current in its strong arms boreTheir bark to green Hy-Brasail's fairy halls,Or whether, as is told along that shore,They sunk within the buried city's walls;Whether through some Elysian clime they stray,Or o'er their whitened bones the river rolls;--Whate'er their fate, my brothers, let us prayTo God for peace and pardon to their souls.Such was the brother's tale of earthly love--He ceased, and sadly bowed his reverend head:For us, we wept, and raised our eyes above,And sang theDe Profundisfor the dead.A freshening breeze played on our moistened cheeks,The far horizon oped its walls of light,And lo! with purple hills and sun-bright peaksA glorious isle gleamed on our gladdened sight,

THEPARADISE OFBIRDS.

"Post resurrectionis diem dominicÃ¦ navigabitis ad altam insulam ad occidentalem plagam, quÃ¦ vocatur PARADISUSAVIUM."â€”"Life of St. Brendan," in Capgrave, fol. 45.

It was the fairest and the sweetest scene--The freshest, sunniest, smiling land that e'erHeld o'er the waves its arms of sheltering greenUnto the sea and storm-vexed mariner:--No barren waste its gentle bosom scarred,Nor suns that burn, nor breezes winged with ice,Nor jagged rocks (Nature's grey ruins) marredThe perfect features of that Paradise.The verdant turf spreads from the crystal margeOf the clear stream, up the soft-swelling hill,Rose-bearing shrubs and stately cedars largeAll o'er the land the pleasant prospect fill.Unnumbered birds their glorious colours flingAmong the boughs that rustle in the breeze,As if the meadow-flowers had taken wingAnd settled on the green o'er-arching trees.Oh! Ita, Ita, 'tis a grievous wrong,That man commits who uninspired presumesTo sing the heavenly sweetness of their song--To paint the glorious tinting of their plumes--Plumes bright as jewels that from diademsFling over golden thrones their diamond rays--Bright, even as bright as those three mystic gems,The angel bore thee in thy childhood's days.[60]There dwells the bird that to the farther westBears the sweet message of the coming spring;[61]June's blushing roses paint his prophet breast,And summer skies gleam from his azure wing.While winter prowls around the neighbouring seas,The happy bird dwells in his cedar nest,Then flies away, and leaves his favourite treesUnto this brother of the graceful crest.[62]Birds that with us are clothed in modest brown,There wear a splendour words cannot express;The sweet-voiced thrush beareth a golden crown,[63]And even the sparrow boasts a scarlet dress.[64]There partial nature fondles and illumesThe plainest offspring that her bosom bears;The golden robin flies on fiery plumes,[65]And the small wren a purple ruby wears.[66]Birds, too, that even in our sunniest hours,Ne'er to this cloudy land one moment stray,Whose brilliant plumes, fleeting and fair as flowers,Come with the flowers, and with the flowers decay.[67]The Indian bird, with hundred eyes, that throwsFrom his blue neck the azure of the skies,And his pale brother of the northern snows,Bearing white plumes, mirrored with brilliant eyes.[68]Oft in the sunny mornings have I seenBright-yellow birds, of a rich lemon hue,Meeting in crowds upon the branches green,And sweetly singing all the morning through.[69]And others, with their heads greyish and dark,Pressing their cinnamon cheeks to the old trees,And striking on the hard, rough, shrivelled bark,Like conscience on a bosom ill at ease.[70]And diamond birds chirping their single notes,Now 'mid the trumpet-flower's deep blossoms seen,Now floating brightly on with fiery throats,Small-winged emeralds of golden green;[71]And other larger birds with orange cheeks,A many-colour-painted chattering crowd,Prattling for ever with their curved beaks,And through the silent woods screaming aloud.[72]Colour and form may be conveyed in words,But words are weak to tell the heavenly strainsThat from the throats of these celestial birdsRang through the woods and o'er the echoing plains.There was the meadow-lark, with voice as sweet,But robed in richer raiment than our own;And as the moon smiled on his green retreat,The painted nightingale sang out alone.[73]Words cannot echo music's winged note,One bird alone exhausts their utmost power;'Tis that strange bird whose many-voicÃ©d throatMocks all his brethren of the woodland bower;To whom indeed the gift of tongues is given,The musical rich tongues that fill the grove,Now like the lark dropping his notes from heaven,Now cooing the soft earth-notes of the dove.[74]Oft have I seen him, scorning all control,Winging his arrowy flight rapid and strong,As if in search of his evanished soul,Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song;And as I wandered on, and upward gazed,Half lost in admiration, half in fear,I left the brothers wondering and amazed,Thinking that all the choir of heaven was near.Was it a revelation or a dream?--That these bright birds as angels once did dwellIn heaven with starry Lucifer supreme,Half sinned with him, and with him partly fell;That in this lesser paradise they stray.Float through its air, and glide its streams along,And that the strains they sing each happy dayRise up to God like morn and even song.[75]

THEPROMISEDLAND.

[The earlier stanzas of this description of Paradise are principally founded upon the Anglo-Saxon version of the poemDe Phenice,ascribed to Lactantius, and which is at least as old as the earlier part of the eleventh century.]

As on this world the young man turns his eyes,When forced to try the dark sea of the grave,Thus did we gaze upon that Paradise,Fading, as we were borne across the wave.And, as a brighter world dawns by degreesUpon Eternity's serenest strand,Thus, having passed through dark and gloomy seas,At length we reached the long-sought Promised Land.The wind had died upon the Ocean's breast,When, like a silvery vein through the dark ore,A smooth bright current, gliding to the west,Bore our light bark to that enchanted shore.It was a lovely plain--spacious and fair,And bless'd with all delights that earth can hold,Celestial odours filled the fragrant airThat breathed around that green and pleasant wold.There may not rage of frost, nor snow, nor rain,Injure the smallest and most delicate flower,Nor fall of hail wound the fair, healthful plain,Nor the warm weather, nor the winter's shower.That noble land is all with blossoms flowered,Shed by the summer breezes as they pass;Less leaves than blossoms on the trees are showered,And flowers grow thicker in the fields than grass.Nor hills, nor mountains, there stand high and steep,Nor stony cliffs tower o'er the frightened waves,Nor hollow dells, where stagnant waters sleep,Nor hilly risings, nor dark mountain caves;Nothing deformed upon its bosom lies,Nor on its level breast rests aught unsmooth,But the noble filed flourishes 'neath the skies,Blooming for ever in perpetual youth.That glorious land stands higher o'er the sea,By twelve-fold fathom measure, than we deemThe highest hills beneath the heavens to be.There the bower glitters, and the green woods gleam.All o'er that pleasant plain, calm and serene,The fruits ne'er fall, but, hung by God's own hand,Cling to the trees that stand for ever green,Obedient to their Maker's first command.Summer and winter are the woods the same,Hung with bright fruits and leaves that never fade;Such will they be, beyond the reach of flame,Till Heaven, and Earth, and Time, shall have decayed.Here might Iduna in her fond pursuit,As fabled by the northern sea-born men,Gather her golden and immortal fruit,That brings their youth back to the gods again.Of old, when God, to punish sinful pride,Sent round the deluged world the ocean flood,When all the earth lay 'neath the vengeful tide,This glorious land above the waters stood.Such shall it be at last, even as at first,Until the coming of the final doom,When the dark chambers--men's death homes shall burst,And man shall rise to judgment from the tomb.There there is never enmity, nor rage,Nor poisoned calumny, nor envy's breath,Nor shivering poverty, nor decrepit age,Nor loss of vigour, nor the narrow death;Nor idiot laughter, nor the tears men weep,Nor painful exile from one's native soil,Nor sin, nor pain, nor weariness, nor sleep,Nor lust of riches, nor the poor man's toil.There never falls the rain-cloud as with us,Nor gapes the earth with the dry summer's thirst,But liquid streams, wondrously curious,Out of the ground with fresh fair bubbling burst.Sea-cold and bright the pleasant waters glideOver the soil, and through the shady bowers;Flowers fling their coloured radiance o'er the tide,And the bright streams their crystal o'er the flowers.Such was the land for man's enjoyment made,When from this troubled life his soul doth wend:Such was the land through which entranced we strayed,For fifteen days, nor reached its bound nor end.Onward we wandered in a blissful dream,Nor thought of food, nor needed earthly rest;Until, at length, we reached a mighty stream,Whose broad bright waves flowed from the east to west.We were about to cross its placid tide,When, lo! an angel on our vision broke,Clothed in white, upon the further sideHe stood majestic, and thus sweetly spoke:"Father, return, thy mission now is o'er;God, who did call thee here, now bids thee go,Return in peace unto thy native shore,And tell the mighty secrets thou dost know."In after years, in God's own fitting time,This pleasant land again shall re-appear;And other men shall preach the truths sublime,To the benighted people dwelling here.But ere that hour this land shall all be made,For mortal man, a fitting, natural home,Then shall the giant mountain fling its shade,And the strong rock stem the white torrent's foam."Seek thy own isle--Christ's newly-bought domain,Which Nature with an emerald pencil paints:Such as it is, long, long shall it remain,The school of Truth, the College of the Saints,The student's bower, the hermit's calm retreat,The stranger's home, the hospitable hearth,The shrine to which shall wander pilgrim feetFrom all the neighbouring nations of the earth."But in the end upon that land shall fallA bitter scourge, a lasting flood of tears,When ruthless tyranny shall level allThe pious trophies of its early years:Then shall this land prove thy poor country's friend,And shine a second Eden in the west;Then shall this shore its friendly arms extend,And clasp the outcast exile to its breast."He ceased and vanished from our dazzled sight,While harps and sacred hymns rang sweetly o'erFor us again we winged our homeward flightO'er the great ocean to our native shore;And as a proof of God's protecting hand,And of the wondrous tidings that we bear,The fragrant perfume of that heavenly landClings to the very garments that we wear.[76]

53So called from the number of holy men and women formerly inhabiting it.

54The Atlantic was so named by the ancient Irish.

55Ardfert.

56The puffin (Anas leucopsis), called in Irishgirrinna.It was the popular belief that these birds grew out of driftwood.

57St. Fanchea.

58Galway Bay.

59These stanzas are a paraphrase of the hymn "Ave Maris Stella."

60An angel was said to have presented her with three precious stones, which, he explained, were emblematic of the Blessed Trinity, by whom she would be always visited and protected.

61The blue bird.

62The cedar bird.

63The golden-crowned thrush.

64The scarlet sparrow or tanager.

65The Baltimore oriole or fire-bird.

66The ruby-crowned wren.

67Peacocks.

68The white peacock.

69The yellow bird or goldfinch.

70The gold-winged woodpecker.

71Humming birds.

72The Carolina parrot.

73The grosbeak or red bird, sometimes called the Virginia nightingale.

74The mocking-bird.

75See the "Lyfe of Saynt Brandon" in the Golden Legend, published by Wynkyn de Worde, 1483; fol. 357.

76"Nonne cognoscitis in odore vestimentorum nostrorum quod in Paradiso Domini fuimus."â€”Colgan.

THE FORAY OF CON O'DONNELL.A.D.1495.

[Con, the son of Hugh Roe O'Donnell, with his small-powerful force,â€”and the reason Con's force was called the small-powerful force was, because he was always in the habit of mustering a force which did not exceed twelve score of well-equipped and experienced battle-axe-men, and sixty chosen active horsemen, fit for battle,â€”marched with the forementioned force to the residence of MacJohn of the Glynnes (in the county of Antrim); for Con had been informed that MacJohn had in possession the finest woman, steed, and hound, of any other person in his neighbourhood.Â He sent a messenger for the steed before that time, and was refused, although Con had, at the same time, promised it to one of his own people.Â Con did not delay, and got over every difficult pass with his small-powerful force, without battle or obstruction, until he arrived in the night at the house of MacJohn, whom he, in the first place, took prisoner, and his wife, steed, and hound, and all his property, were under Con's control, for he found the same steed, with sixteen others, in the town on that occasion.Â All the Glynnes were plundered on the following day by Con's people, but he afterwards, however, made perfect restitution of all property, to whomsoever it belonged, to MacJohn's wife, and he set her husband free to her after he had passed the Bann westward.Â He brought with him the steed and great booty and spoils, into Tirhugh, and ordered the cattle-prey to be let out on the pasturage.â€”Annals of the Four Masters,translated by Owen Connellan, Esq., p. 331-2.Â This poem, founded upon the foregoing passage (and in which the hero acts with more generosity than the Annals warrant) was written and published in the Dublin University Magazine before the appearance of Mr. O'Donovan's "Annals of the Kingdom of Ireland,"â€”the magnificent work published in 1848 by Messrs. Hodges and Smith, of this city.Â For Mr. O'Donovan's version of this passage, which differs from that of the former translator in two or three important particulars, see the second volume of his work, p. 1219.Â The principal castle of the O'Donnell's was at Donegal.Â The building, of which some portions still exist, was erected in the twelfth century.Â The banqueting-hall, which is the scene of the opening portion of this ballad, is still preserved, and commands some beautiful views.]

The evening shadows sweetly fallAlong the hills of Donegal,Sweetly the rising moonbeams playAlong the shores of Inver Bay,[77]As smooth and white Lough Eask[78] expandsAs Rosapenna's[79] silvery sands,And quiet reigns all o'er thy fields,Clan Dalaigh[80] of the golden shields.The fairy gun[81] is heard no moreTo boom within the cavern'd shore,With smoother roll the torrents flowAdown the rocks of Assaroe;[82]Securely, till the coming day,The red deer couch in far Glenvay,And all is peace and calm aroundO'Donnell's castled moat and mound.But in the hall there feast to-nightFull many a kern and many a knight,And gentle dames, and clansmen strong,And wandering bards, with store of song:The board is piled with smoking kine,And smooth bright cups of Spanish wine,And fish and fowl from stream and shaw,And fragrant mead and usquebaugh.The chief is at the table's head--'Tis Con, the son of Hugh the Red--The heir of Conal Golban's line;[83]With pleasure flushed, with pride and wine,He cries, "Our dames adjudge it wrong,To end our feast without the song;Have we no bard the strain to raise?No foe to taunt, no maid to praise?"Where beauty dwells the bard should dwell,What sweet lips speak the bard should tell;'Tis he should look for starry eyes,And tell love's watchers where they rise:To-night, if lips and eyes could do,Bards were not wanting in Tirhugh;For where have lips a rosier light,And where are eyes more starry bright?"Then young hearts beat along the board,To praise the maid that each adored,And lips as young would fain discloseThe love within; but one arose,Gray as the rocks beside the main,--Gray as the mist upon the plain,--A thoughtful, wandering, minstrel man,And thus the aged bard began:--"O Con, benevolent hand of peace!O tower of valour firm and true!Like mountain fawns, like snowy fleece,Move the sweet maidens of Tirhugh.Yet though through all thy realm I've strayed,Where green hills rise and white waves fall,I have not seen so fair a maidAs once I saw by Cushendall.[84]"O Con, thou hospitable Prince!Thou, of the open heart and hand,Full oft I've seen the crimson tintsOf evening on the western land.I've wandered north, I've wandered south,Throughout Tirhugh in hut and hall,But never saw so sweet a mouthAs whispered love by Cushendall."O Con, munificent gifts!I've seen the full round harvest moonGleam through the shadowy autumn driftsUpon thy royal rock of Doune.[85]I've seen the stars that glittering lieO'er all the night's dark mourning pall,But never saw so bright an eyeAs lit the glens of Cushendall."I've wandered with a pleasant toil,And still I wander in my dreams;Even from the white-stoned beach, Loch Foyle,To Desmond of the flowing streams.I've crossed the fair green plains of Meath,To Dublin, held in Saxon thrall;But never saw such pearly teeth,As her's that smiled by Cushendall."O Con! thou'rt rich in yellow gold,Thy fields are filled with lowing kine,Within they castles wealth untold,Within thy harbours fleets of wine;But yield not, Con, to worldly prideThou may'st be rich, but hast not all;Far richer he who for his brideHas won fair Anne of Cushendall."She leans upon a husband's arm,Surrounded by a valiant clan,In Antrim's Glynnes, by fair Glenarm,Beyond the pearly-paven Bann;'Mid hazel woods no stately treeLooks up to heaven more graceful-tall,When summer clothes its boughs, than she,MacDonnell's wife of Cushendall!"The bard retires amid the throng,No sweet applause rewards his song,No friendly lip that guerdon breathes,To bard more sweet than golden wreaths.It might have been the minstrel's artHad lost the power to move the heart,It might have been his harp had grownToo old to yield its wonted tone.But no, if hearts were cold and hard,'Twas not the fault of harp or bard;It was no false or broken soundThat failed to move the clansmen round.Not these the men, nor these the times,To nicely weigh the worth of rhymes;'Twas what he said that made them chill,And not his singing well or ill.Already had the stranger bandOf Saxons swept the weakened land,Already on the neighbouring hillsThey named anew a thousand rills,"Our fairest castles," pondered Con,"Already to the foe are gone,Our noblest forests feed the flame,And now we lose our fairest dame."But though his cheek was white with rage,He seemed to smile, and cried--"O Sage!O honey-spoken bard of truth!MacDonnell is a valiant youth.We long have been the Saxon's prey--Why not the Scot as well as they?He's of as good a robber lineAs any a Burke or Geraldine."From Insi Gall,[86] so speaketh fame,From Insi Gall his people came;From Insi Gall, where storm winds roarBeyond the gray Albin's icy shore.His grandsire and his grandsire's son,Full soon fat herds and pastures won;But, by Columba! were we men,We'd send the whole brood back again!"Oh! had we iron hands to dare,As we have waxen hearts to bear,Oh! had we manly blood to shed,Or even to tinge our cheeks with red,No bard could say as you have said,One of the race of Somerled--A base intruder from the Isles--Basks in our island's sunniest smiles!"But, not to mar our feast to-nightWith what to-morrow's sword may right,O Bard of many songs! againAwake thy sweet harp's silvery strain.If beauty decks with peerless charmMacDonnell's wife in fair Glenarm,Say does there bound in Antrim's meadsA steed to match O'Donnell's steeds?"Submissive doth the bard inclineHis reverend head, and cries, "O Con,Thou heir of Conal Golban's line,I've sang the fair wife of MacJohn;You'll frown again as late you frowned,But truth will out when lips are freed;There's not a steed on Irish groundTo stand beside MacDonnell's steed!"Thy horses o'er Eargals' plains,Like meteors stars their red eyes gleam;With silver hoofs and broidered reins,They mount the hill and swim the stream;But like the wind through Barnesmore,Or white-maned wave through Carrig-Rede,[87]Or like a sea-bird to the shore,Thus swiftly sweeps MacDonnell's steed!"A thousand graceful steeds had Fin,Within lost Almhaim's fairy hall,A thousand steeds as sleek of skinAs ever graced a chieftain's stall.With gilded bridles oft they flew,Young eagles in their lightning speed,Strong as the cataract of Hugh,[88]So swift and strong MacDonnell's steed!"Without the hearty word of praise,Without the kindly smiling gaze,Without the friendly hand to greet,The daring bard resumes his seat.Even in the hospitable faceOf Con, the anger you could trace.But generous Con his wrath suppressed,For Owen was Clan Dalaigh's guest."Now, by Columba!" Con exclaimed,"Methinks this Scot should be ashamedTo snatch at once, in sateless greed,The fairest maid and finest steed;My realm is dwindled in mine eyes,I know not what to praise or prize,And even my noble dog, O Bard,Now seems unworthy my regard!""When comes the raven of the seaTo nestle on an alien strand,Oh! ever, ever will he beThe master of the subject land.The fairest dame, he holdethher--For him the noblest steed doth bound--;Your dog is but a household cur,Compared to John MacDonnell's hound!"As fly the shadows o'er the grass,He flies with step as light and sure,He hunts the wolf through Trosstan pass,And starts the deer by LisÃ noure!The music of the Sabbath bells,O Con, has not a sweeter soundThan when along the valley swellsThe cry of John MacDonnell's hound."His stature tall, his body long,His back like night, his breast like snow,His fore-leg pillar-like and strong,His hind-leg like a bended bow;Rough, curling hair, head long and thin,His ear a leaf so small and round:Not Bran, the favourite hound of Fin,Could rival John MacDonnell's hound."O Con! thy bard will sing no more,There is a fearful time at hand;The Scot is on the northern shore,The Saxon in the eastern land;The hour comes on with quicker flight,When all who live on Irish groundMust render to the stranger's mightBoth maid and wife, and steed and hound!"The trembling bard again retires,But now he lights a thousand fires;The pent-up flame bursts out at length,In all its burning, tameless strength.You'd think each clansman's foe was by,So sternly flashed each angry eye;You'd think 'twas in the battle's clangO'Donnell's thundering accents rang!"No! by my sainted kinsman,[89] no!This foul disgrace must not be so;No, by the Shrines of Hy, I've sworn,This foulest wrong must not be borne.A better steed!--a fairer wife!Was ever truer cause of strife?A swifter hound!--a better steed!Columba! these are cause indeed!"Again, like spray from mountain rill,Up started Con:Â "By Collum Kille,And by the blessed light of day,This matter brooketh no delay.The moon is down, the morn is up,Come, kinsmen, drain a parting cup,And swear to hold our next carouse,With John MacJohn MacDonnell's spouse!"We've heard the song the bard has sung,And as a healing herb amongMost poisonous weeds may oft be found,So of this woman, steed, and hound;The song has burned into our hearts,And yet a lesson it imparts,Had we but sense to read arightThe galling words we heard to-night."What lesson does the good hound teach?Oh, to be faithful each to each!What lesson gives the noble steed?Oh! to be swift in thought and deed!What lesson gives the peerless wife?Oh! there is victory after strife;Sweet is the triumph, rich the spoil,Pleasant the slumber after toil!"They drain the cup, they leave the hall,They seek the armoury and stall,The shield re-echoing to the spearProclaims the foray far and near;And soon around the castles gateFull sixty steeds impatient wait,And every steed a knight upon,The strong, small-powerful force of Con!Their lances in the red dawn flash,As down by Easky's side they dash;Their quilted jackets shine the more,From gilded leather broidered o'er;With silver spurs, and silken rein,And costly riding-shoes from Spain;Ah! much thou hast to fear, MacJohn,The strong, small-powerful force of Con!As borne upon autumnal gales,Wild whirring gannets pierce the sailsOf barks that sweep by Arran's shore,[90]Thus swept the train through Barnesmore.Through many a varied scene they ran,By Castle Fin, and fair Strabane,By many a hill, and many a clan,Across the Foyle and o'er the Bann:--Then stopping in their eagle flight,They waited for the coming night,And then, as Antrim's rivers rushStraight from their founts with sudden gush,Nor turn their strong, brief streams aside,Until the sea receives their tide;Thus rushed upon the doomed MacJohnThe swift, small-powerful force of Con.They took the castle by surprise,No star was in the angry skies,The moon lay dead within her shroudOf thickly-folded ashen cloud;They found the steed within his stall,The hound within the oaken hall,The peerless wife of thousand charms,Within her slumbering husband's arms:The bard had pictured to the lifeThe beauty of MacDonnell's wife;Not Evir[91] could with her compareFor snowy hand and shining hair;The glorious banner morn unfurlsWere dark beside her golden curls;And yet the blackness of her eyeWas darker than the moonless sky!If lovers listen to my lay,Description is but thrown away;If lovers read this antique tale,What need I speak of red or pale?The fairest form and brightest eyeAre simply those for which they sigh;The truest picture is but faintTo what a lover's heart can paint.Well, she was fair, and Con was bold,But in the strange, wild days of old;To one rough hand was oft decreedThe noblest and the blackest deed.'Twas pride that spurred O'Donnell on,But still a generous heart had Con;He wished to show that he was strong,And not to do a bootless wrong.But now there's neither thought nor timeFor generous act or bootless crime;For other cares the thoughts demandOf the small-powerful victor band.They tramp along the old oak floors,They burst the strong-bound chamber doors;In all the pride of lawless power,Some seek the vault, and some the tower.And some from out the postern pass,And find upon the dew-wet grassFull many a head of dappled deer,And many a full-ey'd brown-back'd steer,And heifers of the fragrant skins,The pride of Antrim's grassy glynns,Which with their spears they drive along,A numerous, startled, bellowing throng.They leave the castle stripped and bare,Each has his labour, each his share;For some have cups, and some have plate,And some have scarlet cloaks of state,And some have wine, and some have ale,And some have coats of iron mail,And some have helms, and some have spears,And all have lowing cows and steers!Away! away! the morning breaksO'er Antrim's hundred hills and lakes;Away! away! the dawn beginsTo gild gray Antrim's deepest glynns;The rosy steeds of morning stop,As if to gaze on Collin top;Ere they have left it bare and gray,O'Donnell must be far away!The chieftain on a raven steed,Himself the peerless dame doth lead,Now like a pallid, icy corse,And lifts her on her husband's horse;His left hand holds his captive's rein,His right is on the black steed's mane,And from the bridle to the groundHangs the long leash that binds the hound.And thus before his victor clan,Rides Con O'Donnell in the van;Upon his left the drooping dame,Upon his right, in wrath and shame,With one hand free and one hand tied,And eyes firm fixed upon his bride,Vowing dread vengeance yet on Con,Rides scowling, silent, stern MacJohn.They move with steps as swift as still,'Twixt Collin mount and Slemish hill,They glide along the misty plain,And ford the sullen muttering Maine;Some drive the cattle o'er the hills,And some along the dried-up rills;But still a strong force doth surroundThe chiefs, the dame, the steed, and hound.Thus ere the bright-faced day arose,The Bann lay broad between the foes.But how to paint the inward scorn,The self-reproach of those that morn,Who waking found their chieftain gone,The cattle swept from field and bawn,The chieftain's castle stormed and drained,And, worse than all, their honour stained!But when the women heard that Anne,The queen, the glory of the clanWas carried off by midnight foes,Heavens! such despairing screams arose,Such shrieks of agony and fright,As only can be heard at night,When Clough-i-Stookan's mystic rockThe wail of drowning men doth mock.[92]But thirty steeds are in the town,And some are like the ripe heath, brown,Some like the alder-berries, black,Some like the vessel's foamy track;But be they black, or brown, or white,They are as swift as fawns in flight,No quicker speed the sea gull hathWhen sailing through the Gray Man's Path.[93]Soon are they saddled, soon they stand,Ready to own the rider's hand,Ready to dash with loosened reinUp the steep hill, and o'er the plain;Ready, without the prick of spurs,To strike the gold cups from the furze:And now they start with winged pace,God speed them in their noble chase!By this time, on Ben Bradagh's height,Brave Con had rested in his flight,Beneath him, in the horizon's blue,Lay his own valleys of Tirhugh.It may have been the thought of home,While resting on that mossy dome,It may have been his native treesThat woke his mind to thoughts like these."The race is o'er, the spoil is won,And yet what boots it all I've done?What boots it to have snatched awayThis steed, and hound, and cattle-prey?What boots it, with an iron handTo tear a chieftain from his land,And dim that sweetest light that liesIn a fond wife's adoring eyes?"If thus I madly teach my clan,What can I hope from beast or man?Fidelity a crime is found,Or else why chain this faithful hound?Obedience, too, a crime must be,Or else this steed were roaming free;And woman's love the worst of sins,Or Anne were queen of Antrim's Glynnes!"If, when I reach my home to-night,I see the yellow moonbeam's lightGleam through the broken gate and wallOf my strong fort of Donegal;If I behold my kinsmen slain,My barns devoid of golden grain,How can I curse the pirate crewFor doing what this hour I do?"Well, in Columba's blessed name,This day shall be a day of fame,--A day when Con in victory's hourGave up the untasted sweets of power;Gave up the fairest dame on earth,The noblest steed that e'er wore girth,The noblest hound of Irish breed,And all to do a generous deed."He turned and loosed MacDonnell's hand,And led him where his steed doth stand;He placed the bride of peerless charmsWithin his longing, outstretched arms;He freed the hound from chain and band,Which, leaping, licked his master's hand;And thus, while wonder held the crowd,The generous chieftain spoke aloud:--"MacJohn, I heard in wrathful hourThat thou in Antrim's glynnes possessedThe fairest pearl, the sweetest flowerThat ever bloomed on Erin's breast.I burned to think such prize should fallTo any Scotch or Saxon man,But find that Nature makes us allThe children of one world-spread clan."Within thy arms thou now dost holdA treasure of more worth and costThan all the thrones and crowns of goldThat valour ever won or lost;Thine is that outward perfect form,Thine, too, the subtler inner life,The love that doth that bright shape warm:Take back, MacJohn, thy peerless wife!""They praised thy steed.Â With wrath and griefI felt my heart within me bleed,That any but an Irish chiefShould press the back of such a steed;I might to yonder smiling landThe noble beast reluctant lead;But, no!--he'd miss thy guiding hand--Take back, MacJohn, thy noble steed."The praises of thy matchless hound,Burned in my breast like acrid wine;I swore no chief on Irish groundShould own a nobler hound than mine;'Twas rashly sworn, and must not be,He'd pine to hear the well-known sound,With which thou call'st him to thy knee,Take back, MacJohn, thy matchless hound."MacJohn, I stretch to yours and youThis hand beneath God's blessed sun,And for the wrong that I might doForgive the wrong that I have done;To-morrow all that we have ta'enShall doubly, trebly be restored:The cattle to the grassy plain,The goblets to the oaken board."My people from our richest meadsShall drive the best our broad lands holdFor every steed a hundred steeds,For every steer a hundred-fold;For every scarlet cloak of stateA hundred cloaks all stiff with gold;And may we be with hearts elateStill older friends as we grow old."Thou'st bravely won an Irish bride--An Irish bride of grace and worth--Oh! let the Irish nature glideInto thy heart from this hour forth;An Irish home thy sword has won,A new-found mother blessed the strife;Oh! be that mother's fondest son,And love the land that gives you life!"Betwixt the Isles and Antrim's coast,The Scotch and Irish waters blend;But who shall tell, with idle boast,Where one begins and one doth end?Ah! when shall that glad moment gleam,When all our hearts such spell shall feel?And blend in one broad Irish stream,On Irish ground for Ireland's weal?"Love the dear land in which you live,Live in the land you ought to love;Take root, and let your branches giveFruits to the soil they wave above;No matter what your foreign name,No matter what your sires have done,No matter whence or when you came,The land shall claim you as a son!"As in the azure fields on high,When Spring lights up the April sky,The thick battalioned dusky cloudsFly o'er the plain like routed crowdsBefore the sun's resistless might!Where all was dark, now all is bright;The very clouds have turned to light,And with the conquering beams unite!Thus o'er the face of John MacJohnA thousand varying shades have gone;Jealousy, anger, rage, disdain,Sweep o'er his brow--a dusky train;But nature, like the beam of spring,Chaseth the crowd on sunny wing;Joy warms his heart, hope lights his eye,And the dark passions routed fly!The hands are clasped--the hound is freed,Gone is MacJohn with wife and steed,He meets his spearsmen some few miles,And turns their scowling frowns to smiles:At morn the crowded march beginsOf steeds and cattle for the glynnes;Well for poor Erin's wrongs and griefs,If thus would join her severed chiefs!

77A beautiful inlet, about six miles west of Donegal.

78Lough Eask is about two miles from Donegal.Â Inglis describes it as being as pretty a lake, on a small scale, as can well be imagined.

79The sands of Rosapenna are described as being composed of "hills and dales, and undulating swells, smooth, solitary, and desolate, reflecting the sun from their polished surface," &c.

80"Clan Dalaigh" is a name frequently given by Irish writers to the Clan O'Donnell.

81The "Fairy Gun" is an orifice in a cliff near Bundoran (four miles S.W. of Ballyshannon), into which the sea rushes with a noise like that of artillery, and from which mist, and a chanting sound, issue in stormy weather.

82The waterfall at Ballyshannon.

83The O'Donnells are descended from Conal Golban, son of Niall of the Nine Hostages.

84Cushendall is very prettily situated on the eastern coast of the county Antrim.Â This, with all the territory known as theGlynnes(so called from the intersection of its surface by many rocky dells), from Glenarm to Ballycastle, was at this time in the possession of the MacDonnells, a clan of Scotch descent.Â The principal castle of the MacDonnells was at Glenarm.

85The Rock of Doune, in Kilmacrenan, where the O'Donnells were inaugurated.

86The Hebrides.

87Carrick-a-rede (Carraig-a-Ramhad)â€”the Rock in the Road lies off the coast, between Ballycastle and Portrush; a chasm sixty feet in breadth, and very deep, separates it from the coast.

88The waterfall of Assaroe, at Ballyshannon.

89St. Columba, who was an O'Donnell.

90"This bird (the Gannet) flys through the ship's sails, piercing them with his beak."â€”O'Flaherty's "H-Iar Connaught," p. 12, published by the Irish ArchÃ¦ological Society.

91She was the wife of Oisin, the bard, who is said to have lived and sung for some time at Cushendall, and to have been buried at Donegal.

92The Rock of Clough-i-Stookan lies on the shore between Glenarm and Cushendall; it has some resemblance to a gigantic human figure.â€”"The winds whistle through its crevices like the wailing of mariners in distress."â€”Hall's "Ireland," vol. iii., p. 133.

93"The Gray Man's Path"(Casan an fir Leith)is a deep and remarkable chasm, dividing the promontory of Fairhead (or Benmore) in two.

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