Aileen a Roon,

The blue vault of Heaven, with its crescent so pale.

Barry of Cairn Thierna was one of the chieftains who, of old, lorded it over the barony of Barrymore, and for some reason or other, he had become enchanted on the mountain of Cairn Thierna, where he was known to live in great state, and was often seen by the belated peasant.

Mr. Consadine had informed the soldier that Mr. Barry lived a little way out of the town, on the Cork road; so the poor fellow trudged along for some time with eyes right and eyes left, looking for the great house; but nothing could he see only the dark mountain of Cairn Thierna before him, and an odd cabin or two on the road-side. At last he met a man, of whom he asked the way to Mr. Barry's. "To Mr. Barry's?" said the man; "what Barry is it you want?" "I can't say exactly in the dark," returned the soldier. "Mr. What's-his-name, the billet-master, has given me the direction on my billet; but he said it was a large house, and I think he called him the great Mr. Barry." "Why, sure, it wouldn't be the great Barry of Cairn Thierna you're asking after?" "Aye," said the soldier, "Cairn Thierna—that's the place. Can you tell me where it is?" "Cairn Thierna!" repeated the man—"Barry of Cairn Thierna! I'll show you the way, and welcome; but it's the first time in all my born days that ever I h'ard of a soger bein' billeted on Barry of Cairn Thierna. 'Tis a quare thing, anyhow, for ould Dick Consadin to be sindin' you up there," continued he; "but you see that big mountain before you—that's Cairn Thierna. Any one will show you Mr. Barry's when you get to the top of it, up to the big hape of stones."

The weary soldier gave a sigh as he walked forwards toward the mountain; but he had not proceeded far when he heard the clatter of a horse coming along the road after him, and, turning his head round, he saw a dark figure rapidly approaching. A tall gentleman, richly dressed, and mounted on a noble gray horse, was soon at his side, when the rider pulled up, and the soldier repeated his inquiry after Mr. Barry of Cairn Thierna. "Why, I'm Barry of Cairn Thierna, myself," said the gentleman, "and pray what's your business with me, friend." "I have got a billet on your house, sir," replied the soldier, "from the billet-master of Fermoy." "Did you, indeed," said Mr. Barry; "well, then, it is not very far off; follow me and you shall be well taken care of, depend upon it."

He turned off the road, and led his horse up the steep side of the mountain, followed by the soldier, who was astonished at seeing the horse proceed with so little difficulty, wherehewas obliged to scramble up, and could hardly find or keep his footing. When they got to the top, there was a house, sure enough, far beyond any house in Fermoy. It was three stories high, with finewindows, and all lighted up within, as if it was full of grand company. There was a hall-door, too, with a flight of stone steps before it, at which Mr. Barry dismounted, and the door was opened to him by a servant-man, who took his horse round to the stable. Mr. Barry, as he stood at the door, desired the soldier to walk in, and, instead of sending him down to the kitchen, as any other gentleman would have done, brought him into the parlour, and desired to see his billet. "Ay," said Mr. Barry, looking at it and smiling, "I know Dick Consadine well—he's a merry fellow, no doubt, and, if I mistake not, has got some capital good cows down on the inch-field of Carrickabrick; a sirloin of beef would be no bad thing for supper, my man, eh?"

Mr. Barry then called out to some of his attendants, and desired them to lay the cloth, and make all ready, which was no sooner done than a smoking sirloin of beef was placed before them. "Sit down, now, my honest fellow," said Mr. Barry, "you must be hungry after your long day's march." The soldier with a profusion of thanks for such hospitality, and acknowledgments for such condescension, sat down and made, as might be expected, an excellent supper; Mr. Barry never letting his jaws rest for want of helping until he was fairly unable to eat more. Then the boiling water was brought in, and such a jug of whiskey punch as was made! Take my word for it,—it did not, like honest Robin Craig's, require to be hung out on the bush to let the water drain out of it.

They sat together a long time, talking over the punch, and the fire was so good, and Mr. Barry himself was so free a gentleman, and had such fine conversation about everything in the world, far or near, that the soldier never felt the night going over him. At last Mr. Barry stood up, saying it was a rule with him that every one in his house should be in bed by twelve o'clock, "And," said he, pointing to a bundle which lay in one corner of the room, "take that to bed with you, it's the hide of the cow I had killed for your supper; give it to the billet-master when you go back to Fermoy, in the morning, and tell him that Barry of Cairn Thierna sent it to him. He will soon understand what it means, I promise you; so, good night, my brave fellow; I wish you a comfortable sleep and every good fortune; but I must be off and away out of this long before you are stirring." The soldier gratefully returned his host's good wishes, and went off to the room which was shown him, without claiming, as every one knows he had a right to do, the second best bed in the house.

Next morning the sun awoke him. He was lying on the broad of his back, and the skylark was singing over him in the beautiful blue sky, and the bee was humming close to his ear amongthe heath. He rubbed his eyes; nothing did he see but the dear sky, with two or three light morning clouds floating away. Mr. Barry's fine house and soft feather bed had melted into air, and he found himself stretched on the side of Cairn Thierna, buried in the heath, with the cowhide which had been given him, rolled up under his head for a pillow.[604]

"Well," said he, "this bates cockfighting, any how! Didn't I spind the plisantest night I iver spint in my life with Mr. Barry last night? And what in the world has becom' of the house, and the hall door with the steps, and the very bed that was undher me?" He stood up. Not a vestige of a house or any thing like one, but the rude heap of stones on the top of the mountain, could he see; and ever so far off lay the Blackwater, glittering with the morning sun, and the little quiet village of Fermoy on its banks, from whose chimneys white wreaths of smoke were beginning to rise upwards into the sky. Throwing the cowhide over his shoulder, he descended, not without some difficulty, the steep side of the mountain, up which Mr. Barry had led his horse the preceding night with so much ease; and he proceeded along the road, pondering on what had befallen him.

When he reached Fermoy, he went straight to Mr. Consadine's, and asked to see him. "Well, my gay fellow," said the official Mr. Consadine, recognising, at a glance, the soldier; "what sort of an entertainment did you meet with from Barry of Cairn Thierna?" "The best of good thratement, sir," replied the soldier; "and well did he spake of you, and he disired me to give you this cowhide as a token to remimber him by." "Many thanks to Mr. Barry for his generosity," said the billet-master, making a low bow, in mock solemnity; "many thanks indeed, and a right good skin it is, wherever he got it."

Mr. Consadine had scarcely finished the sentence, when hesaw his cow-boy running up the street, shouting and crying aloud, that the best cow in the Inch-field was lost and gone, and nobody knew what had become of her, or could give the least tidings of her.

The soldier had spread out the skin on the ground for Mr. Consadine to see it; and the cow-boy looking at it, exclaimed—"That is her hide, wherever she is; I'd take my Bible oath to the two small white spots, with the glossy black about thim; and there's the very place where she rubbed the hair off her shouldher last Martinmas." Then clapping his hands together, he literally sang "the tune the old cow died of." This lamentation was stopped short by Mr. Consadine: "There is no manner of doubt about it," said he. "It was Barry that kilt my best cow, and all he has left me is the hide o' the poor baste to comfort myself with; but it will be a warnin' to Dick Consadine, for the rest of his life, nivir again to play off his thricks upon thravellers."

Carrol O'Daly is the Lochinvar of Ireland. He and Ellen Cavanagh were intimate from childhood. The result was love; but Ellen's father insisted on her marrying a wealthier suitor. On the wedding-night Carrol came disguised as a harper, and played and sung this air, which he had composed for the occasion. Ellen's tenderness revived in full force; she contrived to make her father, the bridegroom, and the guests drink to excess, and by morning she and Carrol were beyond pursuit.

The following lines were written one evening to gratify a lady who wished to have the writer's idea of what Carrol might have sung. The air is generally known under the name of Robin Adair:—

What are the joys wealth and honours bestow?Do they endure like true love's steady glow?Shadows of vanity,Mists of the summer sky,Soon they disperse and fly,Aileen a roon!Time was when Aileen tripped light as the fawn,Spying young Carrol approach in the dawn,Ere the sun's early beamGlittered on lake and stream,—Oh! that was bliss supreme,Aileen a roon!Or when mild even's star beamed in the west,Bringing to nature the season of rest—At that sweet hour to rove,Down by yon spreading grove,Breathing forth vows of love,Aileen a roon!Aileen forgets, but her Carrol more true,As these past scenes memory brings to his view.Heaves many a heavy sigh,Breaking his heart is nigh—And canst thou let him die?Aileen a roon!

What are the joys wealth and honours bestow?Do they endure like true love's steady glow?Shadows of vanity,Mists of the summer sky,Soon they disperse and fly,Aileen a roon!

Time was when Aileen tripped light as the fawn,Spying young Carrol approach in the dawn,Ere the sun's early beamGlittered on lake and stream,—Oh! that was bliss supreme,Aileen a roon!

Or when mild even's star beamed in the west,Bringing to nature the season of rest—At that sweet hour to rove,Down by yon spreading grove,Breathing forth vows of love,Aileen a roon!

Aileen forgets, but her Carrol more true,As these past scenes memory brings to his view.Heaves many a heavy sigh,Breaking his heart is nigh—And canst thou let him die?Aileen a roon!

These verses are adapted to the well-known air. They were suggested by a passage from Rousseau's works, quoted by Alison in his Essay on Taste. Though real names are mentioned, the scenery and subject are purely ideal.

Calmly at eve shone the sun o'er Lake Leman,Bright in his beam lay the watery expanse,Softly the white sails reflected his gleaming,Groves, banks, and trees their slow shadows advance.Cool from the mountains the summer-gale breathed,Laden with fragrance the lake it came o'er;Leman, exulting, danced joyous beneath it,Light crisped waves gently roll to the shore.At that soft hour on the blue Leman rowing,Slowly a sage urged his bark by a grove,Silently musing, his lofty mind glowing,Viewing earth's pomp and the glories aboveAs o'er the lake the long shadows extended,Whispering the breeze, lulled each sense to repose;Calm he reclined, and as slumber descended,Visions of bliss to his fancy arose.Heaven to his view seemed arrayed in new glory,Earth breathed forth fragrance and basked in the rayClad in loose raiment, more white than the hoaryFront of Mont Blanc, came a son of the day.Lightly his wand o'er the slumberer extending,While with new joy laughed the earth, sky, and lake;Love in his accents with soft pity blending,Shedding content, thus the bright vision spake:—"Hither I come, from my cloud-crowned station,Touched with thy grief, to shed balm o'er thy mind!I am the Spirit to whom, at creation,Charge was by Heaven o'er this region assigned.List to my accents, thou hunted by malice!Let what I utter sink deep in thy breast:Fly from mankind, to the lakes, hills, and valleys,Thus, thus alone, shall thy spirit find rest."But if again to the world thou now fliest,Thou should return, and again meet thy foes,Think on this hour, when for comfort thou sighest,And the bright scene will dispel all thy woes."Gone was the vision: eve's star now was glancing,Cold came the breeze o'er the blue curling stream;Waked from his slumber, his heart with joy dancing,Homeward he turned, and still mused on his dream.

At that soft hour on the blue Leman rowing,Slowly a sage urged his bark by a grove,Silently musing, his lofty mind glowing,Viewing earth's pomp and the glories aboveAs o'er the lake the long shadows extended,Whispering the breeze, lulled each sense to repose;Calm he reclined, and as slumber descended,Visions of bliss to his fancy arose.

Heaven to his view seemed arrayed in new glory,Earth breathed forth fragrance and basked in the rayClad in loose raiment, more white than the hoaryFront of Mont Blanc, came a son of the day.Lightly his wand o'er the slumberer extending,While with new joy laughed the earth, sky, and lake;Love in his accents with soft pity blending,Shedding content, thus the bright vision spake:—

"Hither I come, from my cloud-crowned station,Touched with thy grief, to shed balm o'er thy mind!I am the Spirit to whom, at creation,Charge was by Heaven o'er this region assigned.List to my accents, thou hunted by malice!Let what I utter sink deep in thy breast:Fly from mankind, to the lakes, hills, and valleys,Thus, thus alone, shall thy spirit find rest.

"But if again to the world thou now fliest,Thou should return, and again meet thy foes,Think on this hour, when for comfort thou sighest,And the bright scene will dispel all thy woes."Gone was the vision: eve's star now was glancing,Cold came the breeze o'er the blue curling stream;Waked from his slumber, his heart with joy dancing,Homeward he turned, and still mused on his dream.

O'er the isle of Juan FernandezCooling shades of evening spread,While upon the peaks of AndesStill the tints of day were shed.From the sea-beat shore returningHomeward hied the lonely man,O'er his cheerless fortune mourning,As through past days memory ran.Soon his brief repast was endedAnd he sought his lowly bed;Balmy slumber there descended,Shedding influence o'er his head.Then a vision full of gladnessCame, sent forth by Him supremeWho his suffering servants' sadnessOft dispelleth in a dream.

O'er the isle of Juan FernandezCooling shades of evening spread,While upon the peaks of AndesStill the tints of day were shed.

From the sea-beat shore returningHomeward hied the lonely man,O'er his cheerless fortune mourning,As through past days memory ran.

Soon his brief repast was endedAnd he sought his lowly bed;Balmy slumber there descended,Shedding influence o'er his head.

Then a vision full of gladnessCame, sent forth by Him supremeWho his suffering servants' sadnessOft dispelleth in a dream.

In his view the lively dream setsHills and vales in verdure bright;Where the gaily-prattling streamletsSparkle in the morning-light.Hark! the holy bell is swinging,Calling to the house of prayer;Loud resounds the solemn ringingThrough the still and balmy air.Youths and maids from glen and mountainHasten at the hallowed sound,Old men rest by shady fountain,Children lay them on the ground.Now the pious throng is streamingThrough the temple's portal low;Rapture in each face is beamingPure devotion's genuine glow.Fervently the hoary pastor,Humbly bent before his God,Supplicates their heavenly MasterThem to lead on Sion's road;Owns that all have widely erredFrom the true, the narrow way,That with Him we have no merit,And no claim of right can lay.Loud then rise in choral measureHymns of gratitude and praise,As, inspired with solemn pleasure,Unto Heaven their strains they raise.Now the grave discourse beginneth,Which, ungraced by rhetoric's arts,Quick the rapt attention winneth,While it glorious truths imparts;While it tells how kind is HeavenTo the race of him who fell;How of old the Son was givenTo redeem from pains of hell;How the Holy Spirit abidethIn their hearts that hear his call;How our God for all provideth,How His mercy's over all;How, beyond the grave extending,Regions lie of endless bliss;How our thoughts on that world bending,We should careless be of this.Once again the raised hymn pealethNotes of joy and jubilee,Praising Him who truth revealeth,Dweller of Eternity!

In his view the lively dream setsHills and vales in verdure bright;Where the gaily-prattling streamletsSparkle in the morning-light.

Hark! the holy bell is swinging,Calling to the house of prayer;Loud resounds the solemn ringingThrough the still and balmy air.

Youths and maids from glen and mountainHasten at the hallowed sound,Old men rest by shady fountain,Children lay them on the ground.

Now the pious throng is streamingThrough the temple's portal low;Rapture in each face is beamingPure devotion's genuine glow.

Fervently the hoary pastor,Humbly bent before his God,Supplicates their heavenly MasterThem to lead on Sion's road;

Owns that all have widely erredFrom the true, the narrow way,That with Him we have no merit,And no claim of right can lay.

Loud then rise in choral measureHymns of gratitude and praise,As, inspired with solemn pleasure,Unto Heaven their strains they raise.

Now the grave discourse beginneth,Which, ungraced by rhetoric's arts,Quick the rapt attention winneth,While it glorious truths imparts;

While it tells how kind is HeavenTo the race of him who fell;How of old the Son was givenTo redeem from pains of hell;

How the Holy Spirit abidethIn their hearts that hear his call;How our God for all provideth,How His mercy's over all;

How, beyond the grave extending,Regions lie of endless bliss;How our thoughts on that world bending,We should careless be of this.

Once again the raised hymn pealethNotes of joy and jubilee,Praising Him who truth revealeth,Dweller of Eternity!

Night's dim shades were now retreating,Over Andes rose the day,On the hills the kids' loud bleatingLingering slumber chased away.Birds their merry notes were singing,Joyous at the approach of morn—Morn that, light and fragrance flinging,Earth doth cherish and adorn.Waked by Nature's general chorusSelkirk quits his lonely couch,While o'er heaven run colours glorious,Heralding the sun's approach.Still the vision hovers o'er him,Still the heavenly strains he hears,Setting those bright realms before himWhere are wiped away all tears.All this vain and transitoryState of mankind here on earth,Weighed with that exceeding glory,Now he deems as nothing worth.Low he bends in adoration,As the sun ascends the sky;Doubt and fear and lamentationWith the night's last shadows fly.

Night's dim shades were now retreating,Over Andes rose the day,On the hills the kids' loud bleatingLingering slumber chased away.

Birds their merry notes were singing,Joyous at the approach of morn—Morn that, light and fragrance flinging,Earth doth cherish and adorn.

Waked by Nature's general chorusSelkirk quits his lonely couch,While o'er heaven run colours glorious,Heralding the sun's approach.

Still the vision hovers o'er him,Still the heavenly strains he hears,Setting those bright realms before himWhere are wiped away all tears.

All this vain and transitoryState of mankind here on earth,Weighed with that exceeding glory,Now he deems as nothing worth.

Low he bends in adoration,As the sun ascends the sky;Doubt and fear and lamentationWith the night's last shadows fly.

The moonbeams on the lake are glancing,The nimble bark is now advancing,That for this grove is bound.Ye gentle clouds, ah! hear a lover,And hasten not the moon to coverAnd darkness pour around.Doth fancy sport, or do I hear her,As nearer still she comes and nearer,Cutting the billows bright?—How still! scarce even a light breeze flying!Earth, water, air, at peace are lyingBeneath the calm moonlight.My heart beats high, my soul rejoices,Methinks I hear their merry voices—She soon will reach the shore.—Ah me! my hopes, my hopes are failing,Yon sable cloud is onwards sailing—The moon it covers o'er.Now o'er the lake they dubious wander,And on some part remote may strand her,Unless they aid obtain,—I'll wave a signal from the summitOf yon high bank, and haply from itSome guidance they may gain.The cloud moves on, the moonlight beameth,And o'er the lovely lady streameth,Upon her lofty stand.With joyful shout the boatmen greet her,Her anxious lover hastes to meet her,And eager springs to land.

The moonbeams on the lake are glancing,The nimble bark is now advancing,That for this grove is bound.Ye gentle clouds, ah! hear a lover,And hasten not the moon to coverAnd darkness pour around.

Doth fancy sport, or do I hear her,As nearer still she comes and nearer,Cutting the billows bright?—How still! scarce even a light breeze flying!Earth, water, air, at peace are lyingBeneath the calm moonlight.

My heart beats high, my soul rejoices,Methinks I hear their merry voices—She soon will reach the shore.—Ah me! my hopes, my hopes are failing,Yon sable cloud is onwards sailing—The moon it covers o'er.

Now o'er the lake they dubious wander,And on some part remote may strand her,Unless they aid obtain,—I'll wave a signal from the summitOf yon high bank, and haply from itSome guidance they may gain.

The cloud moves on, the moonlight beameth,And o'er the lovely lady streameth,Upon her lofty stand.With joyful shout the boatmen greet her,Her anxious lover hastes to meet her,And eager springs to land.

In those blest days, when free from careAnd happy as the birds in air,I roamed the hills and dales,By purling rills oft passed the day,Or on green banks recumbent lay,Listening the shepherds' tales,My fancy, rising on the wing,Would visions fair before me bring,Of castles high, and towers,With knights in radiant panoply,And ladies of the beaming eye,Within their fragrant bowers;Or lead me thence away to shadesOf woods, and show me, in the glades,The cottages serene,Where Peace dwelt with Contend, amongThe happy, gay Arcadian throngThat tenanted the scene.But whether cot or tower aroseIn vision, at the dawn or closeOf summer-days, to me,The lovely form of woman stillShone bright by dale, by mead, by rill,Amid my extacy.I saw her robed in every graceWith youth, with loveliness of face,And virtue's gentle eye;And from her tongue heard accents fall,That would the rudest heart enthral,And raise emotions high.But like the Eastern prince, who lovedThe pictured form of one that movedIn life full many a yearEre he beheld the light, I deemedThe lovely form of which I dreamedWould ne'er to me appear.And years came on, and years went by,And yet I never found me nighMy youthful vision bright.I said,—I might as well, I ween,Expect to see the Fairy-queenDescend, to bless my sight.But often, when we hope it least,And when our search has well nigh ceased,Good fortune will befall:So I one evening saw a maid,Who every grace and charm displayedThat decked myIdeal.Her portrait here I need not show.For, reader, thou must surely knowThat peerless, gentle maid:To her these lines I consecrate;And if she smiles I'll deem, elate,My toil far overpaid.

In those blest days, when free from careAnd happy as the birds in air,I roamed the hills and dales,By purling rills oft passed the day,Or on green banks recumbent lay,Listening the shepherds' tales,

My fancy, rising on the wing,Would visions fair before me bring,Of castles high, and towers,With knights in radiant panoply,And ladies of the beaming eye,Within their fragrant bowers;

Or lead me thence away to shadesOf woods, and show me, in the glades,The cottages serene,Where Peace dwelt with Contend, amongThe happy, gay Arcadian throngThat tenanted the scene.

But whether cot or tower aroseIn vision, at the dawn or closeOf summer-days, to me,The lovely form of woman stillShone bright by dale, by mead, by rill,Amid my extacy.

I saw her robed in every graceWith youth, with loveliness of face,And virtue's gentle eye;And from her tongue heard accents fall,That would the rudest heart enthral,And raise emotions high.

But like the Eastern prince, who lovedThe pictured form of one that movedIn life full many a yearEre he beheld the light, I deemedThe lovely form of which I dreamedWould ne'er to me appear.

And years came on, and years went by,And yet I never found me nighMy youthful vision bright.I said,—I might as well, I ween,Expect to see the Fairy-queenDescend, to bless my sight.

But often, when we hope it least,And when our search has well nigh ceased,Good fortune will befall:So I one evening saw a maid,Who every grace and charm displayedThat decked myIdeal.

Her portrait here I need not show.For, reader, thou must surely knowThat peerless, gentle maid:To her these lines I consecrate;And if she smiles I'll deem, elate,My toil far overpaid.

[These are the verses quoted in the Introduction to the "Tales and Popular Fictions." The author was very young when he wrote them; and Amanda was, like Beatrice and Laura, a meredonna di mente, having no real existence.]

As when a storm in vernal skiesThe face of day doth stain,And o'er the smiling landscape flies,With mist and drizzling rain;If chance the sun look through the showerO'er flowery hill and dale,Reviving Nature owns his power,And softly sighs the gale:So when, by anxious thoughts oppressed,My soul sinks in despair,When smiling hope deserts my breast,And all is darkness there;If chance Amanda's form appear,The gloom is chased away,My soul once more her soft smiles cheer,And joy resumes his sway.Then, dear Amanda, since thy smileHas power all gloom to charm,Oh! ever thus my cares beguile,And guard my soul from harm.Let Hymen's bands our fates unite,What bliss may then be ours!—Our days will glide, like streamlets bright,O'erhung with fragrant flowers.

So when, by anxious thoughts oppressed,My soul sinks in despair,When smiling hope deserts my breast,And all is darkness there;If chance Amanda's form appear,The gloom is chased away,My soul once more her soft smiles cheer,And joy resumes his sway.

Then, dear Amanda, since thy smileHas power all gloom to charm,Oh! ever thus my cares beguile,And guard my soul from harm.Let Hymen's bands our fates unite,What bliss may then be ours!—Our days will glide, like streamlets bright,O'erhung with fragrant flowers.

Fair Tibur, once the Muses' home,Before us lay; aroundWas spread the plain which mighty RomeOft saw with victory crowned.The sun rode high, the sky was clear,The lark poured forth his strain,And flowers, the firstlings of the year,Shed fragrance o'er the plain.A gentle lady turned on meHer bright expressive eyes,And bade the flame of poesyWithin my bosom rise.'Twas then I felt, I felt, alas!How Time has dealt with me,And how the rays of fancy pass,And vanish utterly.For time has been when such a viewAnd mandate of the fair,With images of brightest hue,Had fill'd the land and air:While now I strive, and strive in vain,To twine poetic flowers,Since from me Time away has ta'enImagination's powers.Then lady, be thou gentle still,Let pity sway thy breast;Accept for deeds the fervent willTo honour thy behest.

Fair Tibur, once the Muses' home,Before us lay; aroundWas spread the plain which mighty RomeOft saw with victory crowned.

The sun rode high, the sky was clear,The lark poured forth his strain,And flowers, the firstlings of the year,Shed fragrance o'er the plain.

A gentle lady turned on meHer bright expressive eyes,And bade the flame of poesyWithin my bosom rise.

'Twas then I felt, I felt, alas!How Time has dealt with me,And how the rays of fancy pass,And vanish utterly.

For time has been when such a viewAnd mandate of the fair,With images of brightest hue,Had fill'd the land and air:

While now I strive, and strive in vain,To twine poetic flowers,Since from me Time away has ta'enImagination's powers.

Then lady, be thou gentle still,Let pity sway thy breast;Accept for deeds the fervent willTo honour thy behest.

Farewell! farewell! the parting hourIs come, and I must leave thee!Oh! ne'er may aught approach thy bowerThat might of bliss bereave thee!But ever a perennial rillOf joy, so brightly flowing,Keep each fair thought in fragrance stillWithin thy pure mind blowing.For life all charm had lost for me,My thoughts were only sadness,When fortune led me unto theeTo taste once more of gladness.—I've seen the sullen shades of nightFair nature's face concealing,And marked how scattered rays of lightCame morn's approach revealing.The light increased, the orb of dayClomb to the mountain's summit;And vale and plain, and stream and bay,Drew life and lustre from it.And as it towered in majesty,Light all around it shedding,It seemed a monarch, seated high,Bliss through his realms wide spreading.All nature joyed; I felt my heartDistend, and fill with pleasure;For heavenly light and warmth impartA bliss we cannot measure.This glorious sun to me art thou,Whose light all gloom dispelleth,Before whose majesty I bowWhen he his power revealeth.Thy golden locks, thine eyes so blue,Thy smile so sweetly playing,Were those first shafts of light that flew,The gloom of night warraying.But when, more intimately known,I found not only beauty,But genius, taste, and truth, thine own,Combined with filial duty:Then rose the sun, o'er all my soulIn full effulgence beaming,And tides of joy began to rollBeneath his radiance gleaming.—Time still his noiseless course pursuesWith unremitting vigour,And lovely Spring each year renewsThe waste of Winter's rigour.Were mine the power, thus, like Time,To wake again life's flowers,And days recall of youthful primePassed in the Muses' bowers;Then, lovely maiden! fancy-free,Rich in each mental treasure,In me thou wouldst a votary see—Thy will would be my pleasure.But while such bliss might not be mine,A friendship pure and holyI offered at the hallowed shrine,To which my heart turned solely.—When distant from thee many a mile,High waves between us swelling,I'll think upon thy lovely smile,Of pure emotion telling.The sky will show me thy blue eye;The whispering breeze of evenRecall that voice, whose melodyOft lapped my soul in heaven!The sinking sun thy ringlets' goldWill show; but memory onlyThe treasures of thy mind unfoldTo me when musing lonely.Oh! may I hope that memory,That power for ever changing,Will make thee sometimes think on me,O'er distant mountains ranging?Say me not nay; let Fancy cheatMy soul with bland illusion;And let not Doubt my vision sweetDispel by rude intrusion.

Farewell! farewell! the parting hourIs come, and I must leave thee!Oh! ne'er may aught approach thy bowerThat might of bliss bereave thee!

But ever a perennial rillOf joy, so brightly flowing,Keep each fair thought in fragrance stillWithin thy pure mind blowing.

For life all charm had lost for me,My thoughts were only sadness,When fortune led me unto theeTo taste once more of gladness.—

I've seen the sullen shades of nightFair nature's face concealing,And marked how scattered rays of lightCame morn's approach revealing.

The light increased, the orb of dayClomb to the mountain's summit;And vale and plain, and stream and bay,Drew life and lustre from it.

And as it towered in majesty,Light all around it shedding,It seemed a monarch, seated high,Bliss through his realms wide spreading.

All nature joyed; I felt my heartDistend, and fill with pleasure;For heavenly light and warmth impartA bliss we cannot measure.

This glorious sun to me art thou,Whose light all gloom dispelleth,Before whose majesty I bowWhen he his power revealeth.

Thy golden locks, thine eyes so blue,Thy smile so sweetly playing,Were those first shafts of light that flew,The gloom of night warraying.

But when, more intimately known,I found not only beauty,But genius, taste, and truth, thine own,Combined with filial duty:

Then rose the sun, o'er all my soulIn full effulgence beaming,And tides of joy began to rollBeneath his radiance gleaming.—

Time still his noiseless course pursuesWith unremitting vigour,And lovely Spring each year renewsThe waste of Winter's rigour.

Were mine the power, thus, like Time,To wake again life's flowers,And days recall of youthful primePassed in the Muses' bowers;

Then, lovely maiden! fancy-free,Rich in each mental treasure,In me thou wouldst a votary see—Thy will would be my pleasure.

But while such bliss might not be mine,A friendship pure and holyI offered at the hallowed shrine,To which my heart turned solely.—

When distant from thee many a mile,High waves between us swelling,I'll think upon thy lovely smile,Of pure emotion telling.

The sky will show me thy blue eye;The whispering breeze of evenRecall that voice, whose melodyOft lapped my soul in heaven!

The sinking sun thy ringlets' goldWill show; but memory onlyThe treasures of thy mind unfoldTo me when musing lonely.

Oh! may I hope that memory,That power for ever changing,Will make thee sometimes think on me,O'er distant mountains ranging?

Say me not nay; let Fancy cheatMy soul with bland illusion;And let not Doubt my vision sweetDispel by rude intrusion.

Had the kind Muse, young friend, on meHer pleasing gifts bestowed,And taught to tread of poesyThe smooth and flowery road;Then should the deeds of Robin Hood,And Little John, so bold,And of the Friar, stout and good,In numbers high be told.The merry greenwood should resoundWith feats of archery,And antlered deer along should boundSo light and gracefully!But vain the hopes: 'gainst Fate's decreesTo struggle I must cease;I only can write historiesOf England, Rome, and Greece.

Had the kind Muse, young friend, on meHer pleasing gifts bestowed,And taught to tread of poesyThe smooth and flowery road;

Then should the deeds of Robin Hood,And Little John, so bold,And of the Friar, stout and good,In numbers high be told.

The merry greenwood should resoundWith feats of archery,And antlered deer along should boundSo light and gracefully!

But vain the hopes: 'gainst Fate's decreesTo struggle I must cease;I only can write historiesOf England, Rome, and Greece.

Quam pulchra sunt ova,Cum alba et novaIn stabulo scite leguntur;Et à Margery bella,Quæ festiva puella!Pinguis lardi cum frustis coquuntur.Ut belles in pratoAprico et latoSub sole tam læte renident,Ova tosta, in mensaMappa bene extensa,Nitidissima lance consident.

Quam pulchra sunt ova,Cum alba et novaIn stabulo scite leguntur;Et à Margery bella,Quæ festiva puella!Pinguis lardi cum frustis coquuntur.

Ut belles in pratoAprico et latoSub sole tam læte renident,Ova tosta, in mensaMappa bene extensa,Nitidissima lance consident.

Oh! 'tis eggs are a treat,When so white and so sweetFrom under the manger they're taken,And by fair Margery,Och! 'tis she's full of glee,They are fried with fat rashers of bacon.Just like daisies all spreadO'er a broad sunny mead,In the sunbeams so beauteously shining,Are fried eggs fair displayedOn a dish, when we've laidThe cloth and are thinking of dining.

Oh! 'tis eggs are a treat,When so white and so sweetFrom under the manger they're taken,And by fair Margery,Och! 'tis she's full of glee,They are fried with fat rashers of bacon.

Just like daisies all spreadO'er a broad sunny mead,In the sunbeams so beauteously shining,Are fried eggs fair displayedOn a dish, when we've laidThe cloth and are thinking of dining.

[The object of this version was to give a correct idea of the animated anapæstic measure in which the Shâh-Nâmeh is written. Our knowledge of Persian was extremely slight; but a friendly Orientalist gave us a faithful line-for-line translation, which we versified, and he and Ram Mohun Roy then compared our version with the original.]

His hand from the lute hath its melody drawn,And thus rose the song of Mazenderân:—May Mazenderân, the land of my birth,Its hills and its dales, be e'er famed o'er the earth:For evermore blooms in its gardens the rose,On its hills nods the tulip, the hyacinth blows;Its air ever fragrant, its earth flourishing,Cold or heat is not felt,—'tis perpetual spring.The nightingale's lays in the gardens resound;On the sides of the mountains the stately deer bound,In search evermore of their pastime and food;With fragrance and colour each season's bedewed;Its streams of rose-water unceasingly roll,Whose perfume doth gladness diffuse o'er the soul.In November, December, and January,Full of tulips the ground thou mayest everywhere see;The springs, unexhausted, flow all through the year;The hawk at his chase everywhere doth appear.The region of bliss is adorned all o'erWith dinars, with rich stuffs, and with all costly store;The idol-adorers with fine gold are crowned,And girdles of gold gird the heroes renowned.Whoe'er hath not dwelt in that region so bright,His soul knows no pleasure, his heart no delight.

The words printed inItalicsare those whose origin or meaning is explained.The word "Fairy" is inclusive of all similar beings.

Albrich,206.Alfar,64.Alguacil,464.Amadigi, L',454.Apsaresas,510.Bakhna Rakhna,495.Barguest,306,310.Berserkers,74.Boggart,307.Bogles,316,351.Booby,464.Boy,316.Brownie,171,296,357,395.Bug,318.Bugaboo,316.Bugbear,316.Bullbeggar,316.Calcar,291.Cauchemare,291.Cauld Lad of Hilton,296.Cluricaun,371.Cobweb,318.Colepexy,305.Colt-Pixy,305.Crions,440.Cross,87,134,136,276,375,391.Courils,441.Changelings,125,166,227,300,355,365,393,398,436,471,473,521.Dames Blanches,474.Dame du Lac,31.Daoine Shi',384.Deevs,15.Deuce,438.Drac,465.Duende,462,464.Duergar,66.Duscii,438.Dwarfs,94,157,174,206,264.Eddas,60.Elberich,208.Elf-arrow,352.Elf-bore,307.Elf-queen,331.Elves,78,281.Eugel,207.Fada,5.Fadas,468.Fairy,4.Fairy-bells,363,412.Fairy-butter,309.Fairy-cup,88,109,237,283,284,399.Fairy-departure,127,223,257,273,356.Fairy-labour,122,261,275,301,311,388,488.Fairy-mushrooms,303.Fairy-origin,75,147,150,213,265,363,385,412,432,464.Fairy-riding,355,384,401,414,520.Fairy-song,364,438,461.Fairy-wife,19,108,163,169,370,409,450,458,480,485.Fairy-land,44.Faerie Queene,56.Fairies,28,290,350,363,385,397,412.Farisees,306.Fary,310.Fata,5.Fate,451.Fear Dearg,369.Fées,472.Fosse-Grim,152.Friar Rush,347.Gallicenæ,420.Gandharvas,510.Gobelins,476.Goldemar,256.Good People,363,397,495.Gorics,440.Gossamer,513.Grant,286.Guancia,464.Guid Neighbours,164,351.Habundia,474.Hada,5.Hadas,469.Hag,290,332.Haggard,318.Havfrue,152.Havmand,152.Hel-Keplein,207.Hinzelmann,240.Hobgoblin,317.Hödekin,255.Holger Danske,129.House-spirit,139,163,171,239,265,287,291,296,307,357,369,395,407,449,462,468,488.Housle-egg,291.Huldrafolk,79.Hyldemoer,94.Incubo,449.Iron,25,148,413,488.Jean de la Boliéta,265.Jinn,25.Jinnistân,16.Kâf,15.Kelpie,360,385.Kit-wi-the-Canstick,291.Kleine Volk,216.Klintekonger. 91.Kobold,239.Korr,431.Korred,431.Korrig,431.Korrigan,420,431.Lancelot du Lac,31.Lars,448.Laurin,207.Leprechaun,371.Lob,318.Lob's pound,319.Lubber,319.Lubin,478.Lubrican,372.Luridan,172.Lutin,476.Luck of Eden Hall,292.Mab,331,476.Maçieh,494.Mazikeen,497.Melusina,479.Mermaids,370,433,450.Merrow,370,527.Miölner,70.Monaciello,449.Monkey,464.Morgan,433.Morgana,5.Morgue la Faée,42,46.Moss-people,230.Napf-Hans,265.Neck,148,178,488.Neptunes,285.Nickur,162,163.Ninny,464.Nisse,139.Nix,258.Nökke,148.Nornir,64.Nymphs,444.Oaf,329.Oberon,38,289,325.Oennereeske,231.Ogier le Danois,46.Oldenburg Horn,237.Otnit,208.Ouph,329.Pawkey,316.Pentamerone, Il,455.Peries,15.Pexy,305.Phynnoderree,402.Picktree Brag,310.Pisachas,510.Pisgies,298.Pixies,298.Pixy-led,300.Poake,317.Pooka,371.Portunes,285.Pouke,314.Proud,103.Puck,291,314.Pucker,464.Puckfist,317.Puckle,316.Pug,315.Puk,233.Pwcca,418.Robin Goodfellow,287,317.Robin Hood,318.Runes,98.Rusalki,491.St. Oluf,137.St. Peter's suster,319.Scogsfru,153.Scrat, Schrat, Schretel,229.Seemurgh,17.Shedeem,497.Shellycoat,360.Shian,384.Shinseën,511.Shoopiltie,171.Skidbladni,68.Spoorn,291.Steel,seeIron.Stout,103.Stille Volk,216.Strömkarl,152.Svend Fælling,88,128.Similar Legends,—(i.)19,163,169,370. (ii.)88,109,237,283,284,399. (iii.)115,366,398. (iv.)116,232. (v.)121,409,450,458,480,485. (vi.)122,261,275,301,311,388. (vii.)124,260. (viii.)124,386,387,415. (ix.)127,223,257,273,356. (x.)140,307,369,491. (xi.)149,365,385. (xii.)220,226,289,295,352,389. (xiii.)228,261,287,289,299,358,395,403. (xiv.)302,309,311,312,353,466. (xv.)304,438,461. (xvi.)313,396,477,489.Take,338.Tangie,173.Tarnkappe,207.Tirfing,72.Titania,325.Tomte,139,147.Trasgo,462,464.Trolls,94,102.Trows,164.Turning coat,300.Tylwyth Têg,408.Umskiptinger,160.Urchin,319.Urdar-fount,64.Urisk,396.Vairies,305.Vidhyadharas,519.Vilas,491.Volmar,256.Wain,105.Water-spirits,147,162,163,171,173,178,258,360,385,409,433,444,450,470.Wicht, Wichtlein,216,229.Wight,216,319.Wild-women,234.Wife Paternoster,319.Witch,319.Wolf's-fist,317.Yakshas,510.Yggdrasil,64.Yumboes,495.

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