Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2015 https://archive.org/details/okeeffeslegacytoOOokee | A. O'K. Del. f. Bennett Sep liSBSlild O’KEEFFES LEGACY TO HIS DAUGHTER, BEING THE POETICAL WORKS OF THE LATE JOHN O'KEEFFE , ESQ. ,V THE DRAMATIC AUTHOR. “ He dying bequeathed to his son a good name, Which unsullied descended to me ; For my child I've preserved it, unblemished with shame, And it still from a spot shall go free." The last verse of the Author’s song, “ Ere around the huge Oak,” in'his Opera of “ The Farmer.” LONDON: PUBLISHED FOR THE EDITOR, BY G. WHITTAKER & CO. AVE-MARIA LANE ; AND TO BE HAD OF ALL BOOKSELLERS IN GREAT BRITAIN, IRELAND, AND PARIS. 1834. BOSTON COLLEGE LXBRA&t CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. w T. H. SKELTON & CO. PRINTERS, SOUTHAMPTON. U U X 4i ■ TO Tir^ 1 | MOST GRACIOUS MAJESTIES, (KING WILLIAM IV. and QUEEN ADELAIDE,) €>’Jiccffc’£ 3tcffacp to IjijS SDaugtjter, is, BY THEIR MAJESTIES’ EXPRESS COMMAND, DEDICATED, BY HIS MAJESTY’S DUTIFUL SUBJECT AND GRATEFUL SERVANT, ADELAIDE O’KEEFFE, Editor of the Work, and only Daughter and surviving Child of the Author. II SUBSCRIBERS* TO O’KEEFFE’S LEGACY TO HIS DAUGHTER. ENGLAND. lis Most Gracious Majesty, the King Her Most Gracious Majesty, the Queen Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent Miss Dunnell, 5, Holland Place, North Brixton The Earl of Munster The Duke of Devonshire, Chatsworth Lieut. General Sir Herbert Taylor, Windsor Castle Major General Sir Henry Wheatley, ditto Sir George Staunton, Bart. M. P. Leigh Park, Havant Mrs. Rose, Wilton House, Southampton Mrs. F. T. Rose, ditto Mrs. Duer, ditto W. T. Rose, Esq. ditto Sir Edm. Stanley, St. Margaret’s Cottage, Isleworth Lady Stanley ditto Mrs. Bontein ditto * With the exception of their Majesties, and H. R. H. the Duchess of Kent, the names are given nearly in the order in which they were received. The Queen accompanied her name to the Editor with a gracious token of Her Majesty’s approbation, £5 for a mourning ring or brooch. a 3 VI SUBSCRIBERS. Mrs. S. B. Two Friends, Grosvenor Square, and Carlton House A Friend Mrs. Pilgrim, Grosvenor House, Southampton Peter Breton, Esq. Polygon ditto Rev. Mr. Mears, Rector of All Saints’ Church, South ampton Captain Newman, Bedford Terrace, ditto Mrs. M. Grosvenor, Kingsfield ditto Rev. Mr. Grosvenor, ditto ditto Mrs. Charles Michel, Prospect Place ditto M. Maddison, Esq. Castle Square ditto J. R. Keele, Esq. and a Friend, ditto Chas. Deacon, Esq. Lansdowne House, ditto The Archdeacon of London, Kensington Vicarage Miss Frye, ditto Miss Caroline Potts, ditto Sam. Compton Cox, Esq. Foundling, London The Earl of Egremont, Petworth Earl Spencer, Northamptonshire Sir J. Conroy, K. C. H. Kensington Palace Messrs. Longman and Co. London Messrs. Rivington and Co. London T. H. Skelton and Co. Southampton Prince Hoare, Esq. Brighton Horatio Smith, Esq. ditto Dr. Hall, M. D. ditto Samuel Rogers, Esq. St. James’s Place, London Mrs. Dilke SUBSCRIBERS. VIL The Editor of the Athenseum The Duke of Northumberland Rev. Mr. Howlett Rev. Mr. Pitmans — Holt, Esq. Thos. Brooks, Esq. Rodney Street, Pentonville Mrs. Tattersal, Ealing, Middlesex Miss Cantley, ditto IRELAND. Her Excellency the Marchioness Wellesley, Castle, Dublin Sir Charles Morgan, Kildare Street Lady Morgan ditto The Hon. Mr. Littleton, Castle, Dublin Colonel Shaw ditto Thos. Kelly, Esq. ditto Sir William Gosset, K. G. ditto The Hon. Colonel Talbot, Mahahide Castle General Taylor, Castle Taylor, County Galway Thos. Wallace, Esq. M, P., Stephen’s Green — Ball, Esq. ditto Eccles Cuthbert, Esq. ditto O’Hanlon, Esq. Irish Office, London Butler Danvers, Esq. Merion Square, Dublin Robt. West, Esq. Royal Dublin Society House George Evans, Esq. Portrane, Ireland Mrs. Evans ditto Vlll SUBSCRIBERS FRANCE. Madame Alexandrine de Canson D’Annonay M. Elie Montgolfier Madlle Adelaide Montgolfier Madame Louise Sw. Belloc M. Belloc Madlle Jenny Belloc Madlle Victorine Colas de Nantes M. Dalatz M. E. Littre M. Ernest Lagrenee Agent de Change Madame Emma Guyet Madlle Sarrasin de Belmont M. Julien de Paris M. le Comte de Courtivron, Ancien Maire de Dijon M. le Comte de Chastelux M. le Marquis, Arthur de la Bourdonnaye CONTENTS Page Memoir ...... xi Lines on the Seat in Twickenham Meadows 1 The aforesaid seat destroyed 2 War and Peace, or the Falcon and the Halcyon 5 A Walk to Esher .. 114 Lines to the Memory of Lily .... 142 The Village Delights 144 I want a Tenant ; I have a Tenant 154 — 158 My Lamentation 162 Sir John Carr .... 165 Patrick’s Day in the Morning 167 Lord Nelson . . 169 The Snow King . . 170 On the threatened Invasion of England 173 Barrosa 175 The Review .. 177 Bona the Rake . . 179 To Mrs. Atkinson . . 264 Female Authors . . 268 Delightful Stories . . 272 George the Third’s Recovery 322 A Proclamation .... 324 Lines to the Earl of Egremont 327 Macready .... 328 Goodhumour .... 329 Young Terence .... 330 Erin to her Son .... 334 X CONTENTS. Page Sequel to Erin to her Son 336 Prince Leo, King Leo . . 338 — 341 The Generous Bear 343 Europe in 1830-31-32 347 College-Green Statue 390 Lightning .... 394 Farewell to the Reader 395 MEMOIR. The remark lias often been made, that with the private affairs of public characters, the world is not authorised to interfere by inquiry or otherwise ; but, as in the case of Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, and others, it has proved itself to be of a contrary opinion, by asserting a right to know even the minutest particular concern- ing those who, by talents or genius, have emerged from the crowd, and raised themselves to that world’s notice: the following extract from a Dublin news- paper sent to the Editor, a few days ago, with the kindest intentions, by Lady Morgan, is a volume of explanation in itself. “ It may be necessary to inform some of our younger readers that O’Keeffe is an Irishman, who, in the last generation, shed lustre upon his country by the bril- liancy of his talent, the universal and enthusiastic po- pularity of his productions, and his blameless private conduct. Those only who are old enough to remem- ber the joyous days when politics had not filled the cup of life with bitterness, when theatres were fre- quented, and men were not too refined to be amused, can conceive the “ inextinguishable laughter” with which O’Keeffe’s numerous plays were received, rais- ing their happy audience for the moment to the ranks XII MEMOIR. of the “ immortal gods I” O’Keeffe also was the Berenger of Ireland in those times, contributing towards the maintenance of public spirit by songs, whose honest independence was only equalled by their genuine humour. The rewards of literature were not at all commensurate with its social success,” &c. &c. During the six years that elapsed between the pub- lication of “ O’Keeffe’s Recollections of his Life,” and his death, he dictated upwards of sixty pages of addi- tional anecdotes, which, since his decease, the Editor forwarded as a present from the Author to Mr. Col- burn, the publisher of the “ Recollections,” that she might insert them in their assigned places, in any future edition of that work ; but in those pages, when printed, will not be found any allusion to his family circumstances, more than in the larger work already published, which, on that account, disap- pointed many readers. His total omission of having been first an amateur performer, and subsequently (though for a very short period,) on the boards of the theatres of Dublin, Cork, and Limerick, gave umbrage perhaps to the profession ; but, if so, most unjustly, for in private he took pleasure in retracing how “ Capital he was in Jaffier, Warwick, Jessamy, the 1st Spirit in Comus, Young Meadows, Linco,” &c. &c., and even describing the dresses he wore. In a letter from a contemporary of his, (still living,) are these words : “ The fair and florid beauty of his youthful countenanee, fine symmetrical person, though not memoir. xu i tall, and unequalled melody of voice, rendered him an excellent representative of these and such like cha- racters. The sole reason of the Author omitting to mention his early theatrical engagements, was, their being intimately involved with others of a domestic and family nature ; but as now, unhappily for the Editor, both Father and Mother are no more, she hopes she does not transgress the divine law com- manding Honour to Both, when for an instant, be- fore her own final departure from this world, she for the first and last time raises the mourning veil which has hitherto involved their names in doubt and mystery. In October, 1774, the Author was married in Li- merick by a Catholic priest and a Protestant clergy- man, to Mary, the elder daughter of Tottenham Heaphy, Esq. proprietor of the Theatre Royal, Dublin. She was young, and most beautiful, tall and finely shaped, and at that time the universally acknowledged graceful, elegant, and perfect resemblance of Juliet, Desdemona, Monimia, Isabella, Belvidera, &c., and for seven years their union was a most happy one. They had three children ; Gerald, the second boy, died an infant; the eldest, John Tottenham, born in Cork, was from birth to his seventh year, brought up in the arms, or at the side of his fond and tender mother. He ever most affectionately loved his father, to whom he owed every thing from infancy ; but the maternal heart-string had entwined itself into his very being, and when grown to manhood, he went with his b XIV MEMOIR. father’s permission, and indeed advice, to Dublin, on a visit to his mother’s relations (those of the author were all dead.) The consequence was, that on re- turning to England, and shortly after taking holy orders, in the expectation that the Fitzgibbon family, to whom he was distantly related, might bring him forward in the church (worldly apostacy never can prosper,) he thought it his duty to correspond with his still loving and beloved mother ; and, if possible, to bring about a reconciliation between his parents. This attempt was as fruitless as it was pious and affection- ate; for, although as a Catholic, his father could not marry again, (no legal separation ever took place,) his mother as a Protestant had considered her first union (with a Catholic) not sufficiently binding to prevent a subsequent marriage, which most unhappily for her- self she had entered into, unknown to her parents. The Author’s third child and only daughter (the Editor,) born in Eustace Street, Dublin, the 5th of November, 1776, was early removed from a mother’s arms, and consigned by her to the care of a healthy young nurse, (but lately living at Windy Harbour,) in whose clay and thatched cabin she was brought up until five years of age, the veriest untaught, wild little mountaineer, that the county of Wicklow could boast of ; and thither it was the almost daily practice of her fond father to come and see her, to play with her, provide her with toys, stroke her flaxen curled head, kiss her large round red cheeks, listen to her lisping MEMO 111. XV brogue, and carry her in his arms up the sunny mountains, singing fine songs to her, not in sotto voce , but to the full alto of his sweet, yet sonorous voice. These early remembrances laid the founda- tion of that devoted attachment which, from her child- hood to his lamented death, never forsook her. She never experienced a mother’s care, she never knew the kindness of female relatives ; her father was her first object of love, and when away from him, her brother her only protector. Be it here remarked, under the solemnity of a sacred protestation, whatever the world thought to the contrary, that neither son or daughter ever voluntarily quitted their beloved, their nearly sightless, and some time unhappy father. In June, 1781, the Author and his wife parted for ever : he came to England a wreck of domestic hap- piness, and never again set foot in his beloved coun- try ! Like Milton’s wife, however, (both equally con- scious of innocence,) Mary O’Keeffe followed her husband, to seek forgiveness for her only faults, hasti- ness of temper, impatience of controul, preference of society blameless in itself, but disapproved of by him, and perhaps some instances of youthful extravagance beyond their means. Although her indignant father, her kind mother, her high-spirited brother, Gerald Heaphy (a lieutenant in the army,) during the space of three years, used every possible means to soften his bitter anger, and recal him to Ireland, (as numerous family letters in the possession of the Editor fully XVI MEMOIR. prove,) all was to no purpose, which, when unhappily convinced of, and that his heart was steeled against her, (and only on suspicion, as the oath of a death- bed confession, the priest being authorized to reveal it, fully proved,) she some years after, as before- mentioned, contracted another marriage in Scotland, and thus was for ever separated from her husband and her two children. Neither the author, or his son or daughter were ever in Scotland, or farther in the north of England than Liverpool. For thirty-one years he lived a widowed husband, and from 1813 to the period of his own death, her widower. Although he remembered her relations with esteem, and even affection, particularly her little sister Rachel (at present the wife of the Rev. George Alley, of Moymett rectory. Trim, Ireland,) whose portrait, as large as life, he drew, and often spoke of, he was never heard to mention the name of his wife : that hallowed and tender epithet, with the equally sacred one of mother , seemed banished the lips of both father and children; and when in 1814 the Editor received the news of her mother’s death from the husband of her maternal aunt, such was the acute sensibility of the author’s nature, that it was some days before she could summon courage to acquaint him with the cir- cumstance. On their return from an evening walk, when close to the door of their house, she strove in a mutter, rather than in words, to say, (and though con- scious he could not perfectly see her, her eyes were MEMOIR. XVII fixed on the ground,) “ I have something to say to you — my mother is dead: she died the 1st of last January, at Dalkeith, and is buried there : you are a widower.” He stopped suddenly, and she felt the arm she held, tremble. On entering the house, he went straight to his room, which was unusual, as he generally walked into the parlour, and on going to him some time after, she found him already in bed. He only said, “ Not a word of this, be silent; and remember and get me the certificate of the death and burial.” The Editor, awed by his manner, and tone of voice, made no reply, and was leaving the room, when his call of “ Adelaide, come here,” caused her to return suddenly to his bed-side ; she knelt down at his pillow, and stooping to kiss his forehead, her inva- riable custom at night and in the morning, found his face wet with tears. Thus involuntarily betrayed, he said, as if an apology for weakness was required, “ I once loved her— loved her tenderly, and but too well; I was too indulgent” — a convulsive sob followed, when he added, “ Good night, do not come in any more, and, remember — silence !” The next morning he had entirely recovered his usual self-possession and cold gravity of manner. When they were alone, he said, “You are entitled to the reversion of the an- nuity of £40 on the theatres of Cork and Limerick, left you for your life, by your grandfather, Mr. Heaphy. See, and put the receipt of it in train,” (which annuity has not been paid the Editor since 1819 ;) and from b 3 XV111 MEMOIR. that hour to his own death, the name of wife or mother was never mentioned or alluded to. The loss of his eldest son was, on the contrary, an everlasting pang of regret to his kind heart ; he loved to talk of him : Tottenham had ever been his pride, his joy, his rational companion : he was tall, and very handsome ; a most accomplished scholar and a finished gentleman. Having received from his father a supe- rior and expensive education in Paris, at Westminster School, and at Exeter College, Oxford, he took orders, and long officiated at Duke Street Chapel, Westmin- ster, from whence he was unhappily decoyed by a wild scheme of obtaining a lucrative living in Jamaica, and exchanging it for one of inferior value inEngland. Thi- ther he sailed, and shortly after died of the fever, at the house of the Rev. Mr. Ledwich, Port Royal, aged 28. By an unfortunate and singular delay in the arrival of letters, his bereaved father and sister re- ceived an affectionate letter from him, informing them of his disappointment, and determination immediately to return to England, ten days after they had learned a confirmation of the report of his death from Sir Edmond Stanley, and the governor, Sir George, and Lady Nugent. “ I have now only you on earth, my child/’ was the remark of the deeply affiic.ted father, who for some time gave way to emotions of despair. To return to an earlier period. Strangers who knew nothing of the author beyond his Lingo and Rowkitt, his Rover and Sadboy, could form but a faint MEMOIR. XIX idea of tlie invincible reserve, and, at times, the stern- ness of his character ; the placid dignity of his man- ners on other occasions, and the depth and acuteness of his observations on life and society in general. A trifling anecdote of what took place at a Boarding House where he lodged, about the year 1793, will best explain this assertion. His son’s college tutor, with another Oxford gentleman, on their arrival in town, calling one morning on him, were ushered into the drawing-room, where were assembled in groups the different inmates variously engaged, some with books and maps, others in conversation, &c. and as it was the custom for the boarders to invite any of their friends as they pleased, a formal introduction seldom took place. They staid a considerable time, but not to dinner, and on k .ching the street, the former in- stantly remarked to his companion, “ You seemed very much engrossed in talking, and rather loud, with that gentleman who sat with his back to the window, what might be the subject of your conversa- tion ?” “ Almost every subject,” replied the other ; the events of the day, law, physic, army, navy, uni- versities, catholic question, India Board, Parliament, and languages ; seems deeply read ; an excellent scholar, if we may judge by apposite quotations, intel- ligent mind — shrewd, witty, but grave — who was he V 9 “ And yet,” answered his friend, evading a direct reply, “ I observed your eye wander to the door very often, for I had malice enough to watch you from first XX MEMOIR. to last ; who did you expect to come into the room, and join the numerous party?” “ O’Keeffe, to be sure — where was he ? — I wanted a laugh with him ; I hoped to have seen him ; I went with you on purpose, you know, to see him The answer may be readily guessed, and will no doubt re- mind the reader of a somewhat similar anecdote, related of some French comedian and his physician. — “ It was O’Keeffe with whom you have been prosing the last hour or two.” He was at this time at the full zenith of fame and popularity, (though not, or ever was, of fortune ;) he was admired, courted, praised ; and, perhaps, for selfish purposes, flattered. Pictures of him were in the Exhibition ; he was respectfully accosted, or sin- gled out in the streets, visited more than he wished at his own beautiful house in Charlotte Street, Portland Place, received with acclamations and enthusiasm when appearing in the boxes of the theatres, and courteously noticed by the royal family ; but the mind was already wounded past all healing, which sad change proceeded from the domestic misfortunes de- tailed above, and a gradual decay o fsiglit, which, however, never to his last day, amounted, as is gene- rally supposed, to actual blindness ; he could walk miles alone, distinguish light from darkness, the sun from the moon ; a good or indifferent, or no fire ; sometimes the features of the human face, a window- blind let down or drawn up, a pair or two pair of MEMOIR. XXI lights, &c. ; but he could not see to read or write, or know colours, or calculate distances, depths, or heights; his malady was neither the gutta serena, nor cataract, but simply inflammation of the eyes, produced at 27 years of age, by a cold caught in sitting up at a party, in wet clothes, and subsequently intense night-writing and studies. This at once settles the point so long disputed, of sight and no sight. He was, early in life, it is said, by his gaiety, wit, and cheerfulness, the very soul of conviviality, but when he lost his brother Daniel (his elder by seven years,) the reserve of his character became confirmed and habitual ; he had no one to confide in, to trust to, to walk with him, to converse with him on family topics, or his beloved Ireland ; he had been most affectionately attached to Dan, as he called him, from infancy; after whose death, in 1787, he may be said to have long lived without a relative on earth. His brother, a widower, left a daughter, it is true, who died in 1799, but though amiable and gentle, she was herself of too reserved and timid a disposition to render the home of her uncle a happy one, and he had parted with his children. A few years previously he had sent for them from Ireland, and placed the boy with Dr. Burney, at Chiswick, and the Editor at Mrs. Reubell’s school in Lincoln’s Inn Fields ; but some time after, on hearing that their poor mother had visited both at night, and clasped them in her arms, and shed tears over them, the burn- ing tears of grief and remorse, he suddenly, at a mo- XXII MEMOIR. ment’s warning, inflamed with jealousy, the master- passion of his mind, (that infirmity of the best hearts and noblest natures,) sent them to France with their uncle Daniel ; Tottenham was entered a student of the College du Plessis in Paris, and placed under the care of a private tutor, M. L’*4bbe Halma, chaplain to the Duchess de Bourbon ; and Adelaide to her su- preme horror and surprise, was given in charge of the Nuns of the Convent of St. Austrebeste, at Montrieul. There they remained until the breaking out of the first French revolution, when their father once more re- called them to himself, designing his son for the Aus- trian military service, and his daughter for his own amanuensis. The O’Keeffes of Fermoy, and the O’Connors of Wexford, by their devoted attachment to the royal house of Stewart, lost the whole of their Irish landed property ; yet these very losses seemed to strengthen the fidelity of his ancestors, and both his parents, to that unhappy cause. Be it remembered, he was born in 1747, when the proceedings of that family were the universal subject of surmises, pity, censure, admira- tion, plots, and plans. His maternal grandfather raised and equipped a regiment at his own expense, to support “ divine right,” and the Author was at one time intended for foreign military service, in further- ance of which he studied fortification and drawing under the late Mr. West, of Dublin, and in process of time gloried in being marshalled a Dublin volunteer, MEMOIR. xxiii his own little son being in the Light Infantry corps, and his brother a lieutenant in the same. He owned to the Editor, that, when a youth, he took a rash vow to a Catholic young lady, never to marry any other than a Catholic. For many years the fondest wish of his poor heart was again to breathe his native air, to revisit his native land, and there die— and yet — man indeed proposes, and heaven disposes, or rather instinct would lead us to happiness, when perverted reason proves a wretched snare ! The events of his life show that he passed through every opposite ex- treme. War was not to be his vocation, but the jocund Drama; instead of one of his own faith, he married a Protestant. After 1781 he never again saw his beloved Ireland, and he was destined to owe, not to the Stewarts, but to the royal house of Bruns- wick, the blessings of independence, however humble! We may repeat the word, independence , in answer to cavil, for “ to a pension acquired by superior talents or genius, both or each of which have claimed a world’s admiration, a pensioner has as much right as the land- ed proprietor to his acres, or the fundholder to his dividend.” This opinion, though contrary to Dr. Johnson’s explanation of the term, are the Author’s own words ; yet previously he had agreed with him by declaring, with infinite humour, “ When a man be- comes a pensioner, he is no longer a poet : the gag is on his mouth : now as my Pegasus is as yet uncurbed, 1 am still a poet \” xxiv MEMOIR. With the name of O’Keeffe has been associated, for more than half a century, the idea of humour, laugh* ter, high spirits, fun, frolic, farce, and drollery ! Such be it owned, his mind appears in his youthful produc- tions of Tony Lumpkin, the Agreeable Surprise, the Son-in-Law, the Dead Alive, the Little Hunchback, the Poor Soldier, Love in a Camp, Modern Antiques, &c. &c. But to these essential qualities, (the life of the comic drama,) must be added some of far more importance who of the many admirers of his works can forget the excellent and pleasing lessons of virtue and morality which adorn his maturer plays and operas : for example, Wild Oats, the Castle of Anda- lusia, Fontainebleau, the Highland Reel, the Farmer, the Young Quaker, the Prisoner at Large, &c. Not one of these but might be read, or seen represented, by the eye of youth, purity, and innocence. On the first coming out of “ Wild Oats,” a compli- mentary observation in the Green Room of Covent Garden Theatre was made by Mrs. Pope (Lady Ama- ranth,) who in the hearing of the manager, the per- formers, and other company, said, — “ Our Friend O’Keeffe hath verily improved since the time when he appointed his little daughter to be his amanuensis.” So lady Amaranth might decide, but the vile spelling, unintelligible scrawl, and careless arrangement of her pages, tried the patience of managers and transcribers severely ; and the former often assured the author they preferred his own hieroglyphics to hers, and that MEMOIR. XXV lie had much better send his “ little amanuensis” to a boarding-school, to learn to spell and write. Mr. Harris recommended Mrs. Hannah Morels, at Bristol, and Mr. Colman that of Miss Lee, of Bath. On giving up the ungrateful and unprofitable pro- fession of writing for the stage, the Author endea- voured in 1798 to create a fund for himself, with a reversion to his children, by the publication of his dramatic works in four volumes, previously to which he had allowed his mind to take the early bent of youth, and indulge itself in political writing, but with- out the hope of emolument, had even such been the custom to offer on the part of newspaper proprietors, of which he was not at that time aware. Both Mr. Perry, and his Greek or Roman correspondent, (the Editor forgets what were the signatures,) are now no more ; but while the files of the Morning Chronicle exist, the bold, fearless, energetic denunciations and prophecies of the Seer (who sometimes descended to humourous verse,) can never die. Little could the play-goer imagine, that the absurdities of Lingo, which convulsed him with laughter the previous night, and the masterly political essay he was the next morning gravely pondering over in deep cogitation, were from the same pen. ! The extent of the Authors genius and acquirements has never been fully appreciated, chiefly owing to the invincible reserve, and sternness of his nature, and well-known aversion to learned parties of either men c XXV111 MEMOIR. with!” He took up the MS. again, read attentively for a few minutes, and again laid it down, saying, “ Dante himself may stoop to this — it is too good for the stage — print it, publish it — it is awful, moral, sublime, admirable! but it will not do!” “So!’ replied the Author, a man may write too well: fewer praises, and £100 would be more acceptable to my sublimity !” But it was the fate of this original dramatic poem, which bore the simple, and unpretending title of “ The Cap” to be neither acted, printed, or pub- lished ; the author, on mature reflection, as a matter of conscience, destroyed the MS. and kept no copy, he could only repeat a few verses of it. The admired last scene may be thus briefly explained. He repre- sented Pluto on his throne of fire, with a burning Cap of hellish honor perched on the top of his huge pronged fork : a gang of devils, or evils, (synoni- mous,) returned from earth, whither he had sent them to tempt mankind, rushed into his presence, when each in a verse of four lines only, long metre, but in a language the most nervous, masculine and compre- hensive that could be imagined, claimed the reward of the Cap. Each crime, such as avarice, infanticide, sacrilege, perjury, &c. &c. was distinctly understood by the reader, and yet not a single word introduced that could offend the eye or ear of perfect innocence. A sudden crash of thunder strikes the demons silent, MEMOIR. XXIX and Pluto, rising hastily, in four lines of powerful effect, gives the Cap to the sin of Ingratitude. Mr. Harris, when questioned on the subject, re- marked, with characteristic humour, “ Had I at- tempted to produce it on the stage, half the ladies might have fainted, and the other half miscarried.” This terrific vision still floating on the imagination of the author, he at length laid the spirit , by shifting it into its present far more gentle, but still most awful form. His son read the poem on “ War,” and greatly praised it as the very essence and spirit of poetry ; but asked him, did it not want relief ; he was ever open to counsel, and on this slight hint from one whose taste he justly depended upon, he wrote his admired and beautifully contrasted poem of “ Peace, or the Halcyon.” The origin of “ Bona the Rake,” is to be dated from domestic circumstances of no consequence, and which may be explained in a few words, first premising to the young and rising generation, that as Bonaparte though emperor of France, was not born to empire, but set out in life a subaltern of artillery, there is no miracle in the fact, that with one or more of Napo- leon’s military relations and friends, the Author should be, some thirty years ago, most intimately acquainted. He took long walks with them, listened to their cam- paigns, improved their English, and his own French, and visited them at their boarding house, and invited them to his own board and fireside, which intercourse c 3 XXX MEMOIR. happily chequered the monotony of his own life, and eventually produced this admirable poem. With respect to the “ Legacy” in general, the Editor may here remark, that she has not presumed to touch a Corregio, by altering a line of the original. As her father’s amanuensis (not secretary), she was only a machine worked by the power of mind, the mere pre- server of the overflowings of a memory and imagina- tion which habit and necessity had rendered so reten- tive, (not always having a friend with pen and ink at his elbow) that he could dictate above ten or twelve verses, mentally corrected, which seemed to flow like inspiration from his lips. Composition was in truth the master-spring of his life ; he preferred it to every other amusement, and indulged in it almost to the last few weeks of existence. Let the reader suppose a stranger to come accidentally into his drawing room ; he would perceive, lying at full length on the sofa near the fire, or opened window, according to the season, a figure covered nearly to the chest with a scarlet India, or other shawl, above which is visible a noble and venerable countenance, appa- rently about 60 years of age, but in reality upwards of fourscore. A high, white, and bare forehead, wholly free from wrinkles, streaked with veins of ultra-marine blue, the grey hair behind mixed with brown, and powdered ; that on the temples and cheek, a silvery white ; the complexion ruddy, the eyes blue, much too prominent of late years ; smooth dimpled chin, a MEMOIR. XXXI beautifully formed small mouth, the teeth wholly gone, though not apparently so; a high arched nose; in length above 5 feet ; 8 but from stooping, not so much in height; of well-proportioned limbs; feet, arms, and hands, particularly delicate ; one of the latter might be observed under his sunken, but not withered cheek, and the other arm thrown carelessly on the shawl. At the first casual glance, this figure might appear an object of helpless malady, or deep dejection, or forlorn neglect, but a second and more attentive look would happily undeceive the stranger, and he would perceive the light blue eyes lit up with satisfaction at having caught a happy idea or turn of verse, the half- opened smiling lips, conscious of the innate pleasure of what is soon to be dictated, the finely-shaped and latterly wax-like hands and fingers scanning syllables; in short the whole picture revealing the iiappy poet, a subject not to be pitied, but envied, and were the stranger to remain long enough unnoticed, he might hear the laugh of delight, and cheerful call of “ Ade- laide, where are you ? where’s “neighbour Sea-cole and her pen and ink-horn ? ” I have five or six capital for you.” It was frequently the same out of doors, father and daughter, arm-in-arm, would sometimes walk from Bedford Cottage to the third milestone, on the Win- chester road, and back again, without exchanging a dozen words ; or he would sit on his camp chair, whilst she traversed to and fro a few yards, during his xxxu MEMOIR. rest, and neither of them scarcely speak to each other ; but the glow of his countenance, the unconscious smile, the motion of his lips and fingers, and spark- ling intelligence of his eyes, satisfied her as to what was the employment of the mind. On their return home, it was in vain to tell him that his dinner waited ; he could enjoy nothing until his “ imagination was un- versed.” The Editor hastily wrote down what he dic- tated, and he was then happy and contented. With respect to mingling in society, a painful dis- order which he had laboured under for some years, does not exonerate him wholly from the charge of ungratefully secluding himself from the friends, ac- quaintance, and many kind strangers, who wished to visit him, if only for ten or twenty minutes at a time. The Editor has been often accused, and most unjustly, of being the adviser of this strict la Trappe seclusion, on the contrary she opposed it, and sometimes suc- cessfully, as one most remarkable instance will suffi- ciently prove. In January 1826 the Bishop of Chichester called with a kind message from his late Majesty, and was shown up stairs, whilst the Editor went into her fa- ther’s room to apprize him of the visit. He had for some days been highly and most justly irritated by the refusal of Covent Garden Theatre to pay him his life annuity, which has never been paid since December, 1825, and a letter received only that morning had greatly increased his indignation ; the consequence MEMOIR. XXX111 was, he refused to leave his room. “ I’ll not see him, I’ll see no one, I’m dressing myself, I’m shaving my- self, (his invariable practice from youth, to the Friday previous to his death on Monday.) What have I to do with bishops, or they with me. I care nothing for the king; he has neglected me,” &c. &c. His feel- ings, however, gradually became more calm, and he did consent to go into the other room, where he re- ceived his lordship with complacency, and finally ex- pressed his gratitude ; thus his privy purse pension of £100 depended, perhaps, on his taking exactly six steps from his chamber to the adjoining apartment ; and yet his accepting the royal bounty produced pro- phetic fears on his part, which, since his death, have been most fully and fatally realized. Hesitation and delicacy on the part of the Editor must now give way to truth ; and as a fearless bio- grapher, without one tie or relative on earth, (of her aunt and cousins in Ireland she knows nothing, never having seen or heard from the former since her own childhood, or ever any of the latter.) She does not hesitate to relate for the first time, what passed on the departure of his lordship. Her father sat for some moments on the sofa, his hands clasped between his open knees, his eyes cast down, and his lips com- pressed — he was speechless, and the swelled veins of his forehead appeared like thick blue ropes : much alarmed, she endeavoured to arouse him, though feel- ing mentally oppressed herself. lie spoke at last, XXXIV MEMOIR. and with energy — “ I see how it will be— this stops Robins and Winston — their London subscription for me will stop on hearing this. I hoped to have funded a good round sum at once, or increased the Westmin- ster annuity with a reversion to you; but now that bubble is burst; the pension comes in by driblets, the king may die to-morrow, and this dies with him ; I am nearly 79, I may die to-morrow, and this dies with me ; the Treasury pension may also be stopped, and you are left to the mercy of a selfish and callous world.” Much more of the same nature passed; but he was at length soothed to patience, and the following June he received from Messrs. AVinston and Robins £188 (round figures,) being the sum kindly collected for him by them ; a considerable part of which was well expended in paying off the few small debts unavoid- ably left by the Author’s son, when he quitted Eng- land for Jamaica twenty-two years before, and which had he lived to return, he himself would have de- frayed. True, it w T as the wish and advice of her father to lay by a part of the pension ; but had she done so, and thereby abridged their mutual comforts, by hoarding for an hereafter any part of an income reduced by losses even with this additional income , to £227 a-year, it would have been only an exemplifica- tion of the well-known fable of Esop. The king gave it to her father to spend, not to the Editor to lock up for herself, when he should be no more. The total Mi' MO 111. XXXV loss of both the pensions, and the three annuities (so unexpected and undeserved), soon verified her parent's words. His furniture and effects were sold last July, by public auction, and her beloved home, where she had lived for the last fifteen years (no matter the lo- cality,) given up for a small lodging, &c. For many years the fondest wish of the Author’s kind heart was to return to his beloved native land, there to pass the remainder of his days, and so late a3 the year 1829, one of his frequent amusements was to arrange the practicability of going thither. “ I think, Adelaide, that you and I, and our two beagles, (the housemaid and the Editor’s own maid servant were ways thus designated,) might ride or Fly down High Street to the Quay, and get on board a Dublin Packet, and wake at the Pigeon House, and sleep in Sack- ville Street. Our pensions could be paid at the Trea- sury there (in money affairs it was always plural ;) and I would show you Dublin, and we would go to Cork and Limerick all this was spoken calmly, when starting up, he would continue with animation, and marked gesture, “ If ever I again set foot in Ire- land, let who will see me, be they hundreds or thou- sands, I’ll kneel down and kiss the ground, the blessed ground 1” When the subscription for Ireland was raised, he said — “ Give two sovereigns for you and me ; Ireland exports plenty, and imports charity.” The day before his death was Candlemas Day : — at eleven o’clock, as he lay on the sofa, the Editor sitting kxxvi MEMOllt. close to him, read the Catholic service, when he ob- served at the words, “ to the perfection of wax,” as they both held a small taper in their hands, “ You always burn wax, I hope V* “ Most certainly,” I re- plied, “ We do, and have, for many years.” On reading the words, “ after having finished the dark- some passage of this life we may come to never-fading joys,” and “ Now thou dost dismiss thy servant, O Lord, according to thy word, in peace,” could she have foreseen that before nine o’clock the next even- ing he would be no longer on the earth ! At eight o’clock he as usual sung his hymns, which he had touched on the piano, and she written down some years before : and, had his death been expected, could more appropriate aspirations have been selected for a departing spirit? 1. Lucis Creator, (Author of Light !) 2. Ora pro Nobis, (Pray for us!) 3. Venite adore- mus, (Come and adore !) 4. Hallelujah ! and 5. I would rejoice ! Jubal’s Lyre. Although attendance on public worship was utterly impracticable from his painful disorder, and latterly extreme weakness, a more pious and religious mind never existed ; for many previous months, mental prayer seemed incessant, and though still cheerful, he appeared at times aware of speedy dissolution, yet re- solved to conceal his opinion from his daughter, who, to this day, looks back at his death as sudden and un- expected, though certainly not unprepared. He never kept his bed, but rose as usual at eight o’clock on MEMOIR. XXXVII Monday morning the 4th of February. Having fin- ished dressing himself, he was endeavouriug, as it afterwards appeared, to reach his table, near the win- dow, when a faint cry of “ Adelaide !” brought her instantly to him, and he sunk from her arms gently to the floor, where he lay senseless for a few minutes, the eyes closed, the speech gone, the pulse almost at rest, and the hands and nails livid and purple. Medical assistance came as soon as possible, and he was removed to the sofa in the other room ; but though he rallied in a wonderful manner, no hope was given, for none remained. On the return of speech, his first words were, “ There is nothing the matter with me, I am very well.” In about half an hour after, another fit came on, and he was carried back to his bed, over which the last sacred offices were speedily administered by the Catholic priest of St. Joseph’s Chapel. Absolution and extreme unction were im- parted, with consciousness on his side, but (as it ap- peared, at least shortly after,) he was already too far on his journey to heaven to receive the holy Eucharist : hard breathing, or rather gasping for life, intervened ; his lips moved frequently and fervently ; of what was not prayer only a few unconnected words were heard, excepting two or three sentences firmly pronounced “ God bless you,” (perhaps, “ Sir,”) to the priest, and “ God bless you, my darling child,” to his daugh- ter, who shortly after giving him a few spoonfuls of arrow root, heard him distinctly say — “ This is my last supper remarkable words, as he never took that meal, and must have alluded to not having received XXXV1I1 MEMOIR. the holy communion. In less than ten minutes after, at a quarter before before eight o’clock, whilst his daughter sat at the head of his bed, his hands in hers, her maid servant and an aged woman called in for the first time that morning, being the only persons pre- sent, he breathed his last. His fervent prayers were granted, his daughter closed his eyes, and under the direction of the nurse, passed the fatal white binder round the calm a,nd serene countenance, which, after death, assumed a kind of holy smile. He left the world in full possession of every earthly comfort, with a mind and heart resigned and purified, and his men- tal faculties still in perfection ; without a pang or con- vulsion, like holy Simeon, he passed away in peace. Four days after death, a cast was taken of the face ; this, and the pictures of him, will ever be, while life remains, her dearest treasures. There being no Catholic burying ground nearer than Winchester, and his daughter not having sufficient fortitude to bear the removal of his beloved remains beyond the limits of a walk, the rites having been pre- viously performed by the priest, over the shell which rested on his bed, they were, on the 1 1th of February, deposited in the burial ground of All Saints’ Church : four persons only attended the funeral to the grave. His daughter, supported on the right and left by the priest and the surgeon, and followed by her maid servant. The service performed by the rector. Requiem acternam dona ei Domine, Et lux perpetua luceat ei ! OKEEFFES LEGACY TO HIS DAUGHTER. INTRODUCTION. LINES * On the Venerable Archdeacon Cambridge having a Seat placed for the Author under a large Elm in his Meadows at Twicken- ham, 1803. Along this mead should fervent sunbeams heat thee, As walking on to Twickenham or to Sheen, f Forsake the path, upon this rude block seat thee ; Cool is the shade, enjoy the rural scene, And think nor couch nor throne, so safe, or so serene. * The author set them to music, and often sang them, t Richmond. 2 o’keeefe’s legacy From this calm spot, fly far all things unholy l Light fays and guardian sylphs assemble here ; But most is welcome, pensive melancholy, With wounded mind, tho’ soften’d, yet austere, To make upon a world remarks not too severe. For numerous as the boughs and leaves above thee, Poor mortal, are the faults to which tliou’rt prone ; Take comfort, tho’ a bad world cease to love thee ; In candour let its numerous faults alone ; Here contemplate the means to rectify thine own. Here Peace bring health, hence sullen pale Dejection l Here dreams of grief to waking joys give way : List to yon thrush ! his song chides sad reflection ; Soft Consolation pours from every spray, To charm the soul resign’d, with full harmonious lay. ON THE AFORESAID SEAT BEING DESTROYED. Sure ’twas some rustic base, some savage hand, That from beneath yon elm my rude block tore : Now must I drag my limbs, or wearied stand, And seek repose on that lov’d spot no more. TO IIIS DAUGHTER. 3 Ah, dull ingrate! to harm His sylvan haunts, Whose jocund Muse was thy true friend ere now : She turn’d the rich man’s eye upon thy wants, Bade him relieve thee, and she taught him how. When Winter’s angry brawl swell’d loud the storm, Ta’en had my seat been, on thy hearth to blaze, The crackling flame thy shivering babes to warm, Pity had turned my anger into praise : But were those ample meadows spread with snow ? Were leafless boughs in icicles arrayed ? Say, was it chilling cold ?-^-thou caitiff, no ! The sun struck hot, and grateful was the shade. And much I loved to walk those fields alone, Where with my children * I’ve their sorrows shared ; I do not grieve that thou art gone, my son ! In this our world but sadly hast thou fared. Much learning hadst thou, early-fated youth ! Highly accomplished wertthou, too, my boy; Tottenham and Adelaide. 4 o’keeffe’s legacy With grace and fervour came the words of truth, When in the duties of thy blessed employ. * My soul is told — my gladdened soul believes That my young Curate is, O Lord, with Thee ! No Living had he here, yet now he lives To intercede for Porteusf and for me ! My Seat is gone ; then be it ne’er replaced ; Let suns strike hot, fall cold the evening dew, By foot of mine this path be ne’er retraced, Though circumscribed my rural walks, and few ! * The Rev. John Tottenham O’Keeffe, A. B. of Exeter College, Oxford, and Chaplain to his present Majesty, when Duke of Cla- rence, 1803. He died in Jamaica, whither he went to take possession of a living, given him by General Nugent. t Bishop of London, to whom the author applied for a small living for his son ; but ineffectually, as it had been promised. v TO HIS DAUGHTER. b WAR ARD PEACE. A POEM. NEVER INTENDED FOR PUBLICATION DURING THE AUTHOR’S LIFE TIME. The following Poem was wholly composed whilst walking in Twick- enham Meadows, and sitting under the elm. When the author had mustered about fifty or sixty lines, arranging, altering, and improving them in his mind, his habit was to hasten home, write them in his own hand, throw them in his desk, and return to his walk in the public meadows, which are situated between Twick- enham and Richmond. Thus he could with ease compose about three hundred lines a-day ; but sometimes such was the rapidity of invention, that many were lost by the inability of the hand to keep up with the thoughts. Thou shalt not kill.” PART I. — WAR, OR THE FALCON. EXORDIUM. Sauntering as I ruminate On my portioned mortal state, Out of hearing, out of ken, Are the crouded haunts of men. 6 O KEEFFE’s LEGACY Opening glade and shading tree. Made and planted were for me : Thus as time I wile away, Gliding goes another day, And my days all numbered are, Certain is my given share. Back to me thou canst not post. Day mis-spent, for ever lost ; This memento, useful, kind. Sent is in the coming wind : From the distant village bell, Listening as the strokes I tell, Not innate, though apt the thought, Thus to apprehension brought : Here, remarks on good and ill, Soul with imagery fill ! Yet not mine — to Heaven belong Strains that harmonize the song : Strains which sacred are, tho’ mine ; Humble, tho’ from theme divine, Stand these numbers consecrate, Proof to prejudice and hate. TO IIIS DAUGHTER. Theme to God devoted ! — child, * Tho’ neglected, nay, reviled ; Tho’ by man contemned and spurned, By Oblivion’s hand inurned, Like the Phoenix shouldst expire, Sink in life-creating fire, Yet like new-born Phoenix rise, Live in aromatic skies ! Song ! on earth canst thou be prized Whilst thy theme is here despised ? Gentle herald of her choice, Of her trump the breathing voice, Pleasing agency fulfil, And to man pronounce her will. Sing not thou as bajrd of old, f Who the woes of Ilium told ; Come, not sense to undermine, Nor to dress up murder, fine, Giving draughts the brain to rend, Making Philip’s son a fiend. J Peace. t Homer. t Alexander the Great. 8 o’keeffe’s legacy Our soft balm of holy Chrism Fiends expel, an exorcism! Grant that seer his giant power, Fame, that time can ne’er devour, He a sun, and I a star ; I’m in subject brighter far ! For thy thesis, gentle muse, What the implements to use ? This my text, “ Thou shalt not kill.” Dip in milk thy pliant quill, Taken from the cygnet’s wing, Pen such strains as seraphs sing, When for man they intercede, And for grace and mercy plead ! Nor presumptuous the thought, Mortals whom such flame has caught, Catch from heaven the lambent fire, Which the seraphim inspire. Sacred warfare we shall hold, Aid, O God, thy champion bold, Bold with prejudice to cope, In thy truth exists my hope. TO HIS DAUGHTER. 9 Into ether tho’ I spring, Soar on waxen hinged wing, Flight of Icarus, tho’ mine, Cherish, Lord, my pure design ; And my fall in mercy break ; Save me for my motive’s sake ! Star of Bethlehem ! let thy ray Light again the devious way, Nor in clouds thy lustre hide ; Star of Bethlehem thou didst guide Wise, and simple, heretofore, Where they should their God adore. Let thy light the gloom dispel, That I may to others tell, Why a Saviour came on earth, Why a Virgin gave him birth; Why her heel the Serpent crushed. And the voice of hell was hushed ; Why were prophecies fulfilled, Why his church did Christ thus build Upon a rock that cannot fail, Nor against it hell prevail ! 10 O KEEFFE S LEGACY From that first important hour When the rabbies owned his power, As the green and tender youth Spake the sapient words of truth ; Every miracle he wrought, Every precept which he taught, Till his death sealed man’s release, Shone in clemency and Peace ! When the master of the fold By the faithless sheep was sold, Swoln with sacerdotal pride, When C alphas truth decried, Spite and envy from him sped, By the arch-apostate led To where stood the Christ resigned, With intent to take and bind, And for show the victim try, Whom they had prejudged should die, Loyal and courageous zeal Made the wound for Christ to heal ! Sure, if ever beam’d a cause Worthy heaven and earth’s applause, Zealous Peter had to plead Such a cause for such a deed. TO HIS DAUGHTER. 11 All Christ’s precepts, grace divine, From an apt occasion shine ; Evil tho’ by Peter’s sword, Thus proceeds the sacred Word — - “ Those who for redress apply To the sword, by that shall die.” Such shall perish. Fools ! why brave Death that goes beyond the grave ? PRAYERS FOR VICTORY. At thy church — not on thy knees, Sinner, sitting at thy ease In thy comfortable pew Thinking every good thy due : Erring Christian ! do not dare To insult the Lord with prayer, Asking him to deal the blow, Giving victory o’er thy foe ! At the time thou may’st suppose Prayers ascend from thousand foes, Wishing the divine decree Give them conquest over thee ; They as thou his creatures are, Equal all his mercies share : 12 o’keeffe’s legacy Who creates, and not destroys, Steady holds the equipoise : Canst thou think the Judge supreme Partially will touch the beam ? From the heaven-devoted place Fled is sweet celestial grace ! From the Ark the cherub flown, And the Altar Moloch’s throne ! Gush, salt tear, from Pity’s eye, Heave, involuntary sigh ; Troubled bosom undulate, Sicken, soul, at Abel’s fate ! From his wound streamed murders wide, Source of war was fratricide ; Thence the inundation spread, Making thence “ the green, one red.” Whether cursed assassin’s knife In the dark purloining life, Or the traveller o’er the heath, In the bullet meeting death, Or mistaking honour’s call, In the duel Valour fall ; Glory or revenge inspire, Tho’ Apollo string the lyre ; TO I1IS DAUGHTER, 13 Atticus, the good and wise, Sing a Churchill to the skies ; * Boadicia’s cruel doom, Regulus, thy spiked tomb, Noble Bragandina flayed, Burn’d alive the patriot maid ; Mercy to the fall’n denied, Stain to Henry, England’s pride ; Wrong’d Uriah’s hope forlorn, Naz’rine babes from mothers torn, For the jealous monarch’s fear Tossed upon the soldier’s spear ; Storm’d Warsaw, Oczakoff sacked, Torture made an Holy Act ; For sad truths in Cambria sung, Bards from steeps of Snowden flung, Jael’s nail, nay, David’s sling, Turkish mute, and fatal string, Casca’s dagger, Caesar’s steel, Felton’s blade, and Damien’s wheel, People’s rage on Dutch De Witts, + Jewish Gordon’s hare-brained fits; Addison’s poem of “The Campaign.” t The two brothers, torn in pieces by a Dutch mob. c 14 o’keeffe’s legacy Platform where a Sydney bled, Block where lay the royal head ; All the dire heart-rending throes, Ancient sorrows, recent woes, Which the weeping Muse can tell, That humanity befel ; Battle, skirmish, or affray, Sprang from that ill-fated day When by Man a Man was slain On the scaffold or the plain, From the sin of first-born Cain! For, once passed the Rubicon, Men in blood marched boldly on ; Innocence in terror fled, Man must bleed, for man hath bled ! Crimson ways, so hacknied trod, Till must bleed the Son of God ; Bound, who came for our release, Slain, who came to bring us peace! WOMEN NOT TO ENCOURAGE WARS. Dames of Rome, prepare the urn ! See your beauteous sons return TO HIS DAUGHTER. 15 From Pharsalia, from the war, But disguised by many a scar : Thus shrewd Ceesar gave the word — “ Soldiers ! upward point the sword ; Those are of Narcissus’ race, Vain in lineaments of face ; Spare the body, spare the limb, Tender, delicate, and trim ; Mar the face, and all is done, Pompey flies ! the day is won !” Dames of Rome, prepare the urn, Let the bones to ashes turn ; Blanched bones are all you have, All the relicks you can save From the harpies of the air ; V ulture’s beaks have left them bare ! At thy breast this babe once hung, Charmed thee with its lisping tongue ; Looked upon thy face and smiled ; Was he not thy darling child? Was his sire to thee more dear? Centre of thy hope and fear, 16 o’keeffe’s legacy Fearful lest the summer gale In respect to him should fail. Fearful of the rose’s thorn, Fearful of the vernal morn ; Fearful of the shallow stream, Fearful of the noon-tide beam ; Noblest precepts form his mind. Make him gentle, good, and kind ; Taught an insect not to harm, Soft beneficence his charm ; Nature’s donatives improved, All accomplished, all beloved, Like the gayest flower full blown. Comely, fair in stature grown, See the youth the Muse’s heir, Justify maternal care ; Expectation hails him given For some favourite work of heaven Formed for life, fond mother, why Dost thou send him forth to die ? “ Go abroad, thy mother’s joy. Kill our enemies, my boy I TO HIS DAUGHTER. 17 Bravely fight ; thy country save, O’er the field this ensign wave ; Of thy Marcia worthy prove, She embroidered it, my love : Struck with terror at thy sight, Soon they fly my soul’s delight : Foes to Rome are base and vile, Deep in perfidy and wile ; For destruction marked above, All abhorred of mighty Jove ; Themis wields the sword of fate, Fight, pursue, exterminate ! Come with victory and spoils, Marcia’s hand rewards thy toils ; An ovation’s bright renown Decks thy brow with mural crown ; Nay, a triumph! rapturous bliss, Take my blessing in a kiss !” Labour, brain, and sinews bend, Lovely woman to defend ; Let it be our glory still To preserve the Fair from ill ; c 3 18 o’keeffe’s legacy Brightest form of manly pride, In our core of heart abide ; When that flame shall cease to glow, Gods, no good on man bestow 1 Gentleness thy shield and spear, Woman, thou hast nought to fear ; Looks so timid, modest, meek, For thee eloquently speak : Why abet, unthinking Fair, Dangers thou’rt forbid to share ? Why, a priestess thou of Mars, Urge our youth to causeless wars ? When, alas ! too prompt and free, Is it generous of thee To assume the spear and goad On the thorn-besprinkled road ? Thou a woman ! Roman dame ! What protection is thy claim ? Or should none thy sex dispute, Art thou human, art thou brute ? Woman, with a wolfish heart, Act thy sanguinary part ; TO HIS DAUGHTER. 19 Savage qualities display, Make thy young a whelp of prey ; Patriot ardour thou canst plead, Dire Invasion’s wondrous dread ; Constitution and the laws, Blest Religion’s righteous cause ; These the sweetly sounding notes, Such the melody that floats O’er the land and o’er the seas, But a syren’s songs are these. Canst thou to thy judgment trust, Or decide which cause is just ? Neither, for were either right, Far would fly the hour of fight ; Hard are tied the statesman’s knots, Deep are laid his under-plots : Ere an hostile bow was bent, Who appied for thy consent ? By thee, lady, be it known, Ere one fatal javelin ’s thrown, Military art, profound, Settles who must bite the ground ; 20 O KEEFFE S LEGACY What the lives to fling away, To secure the glorious day ; Likely on the sable roll Stood the darling of thy soul : Let this thought thy grief restrain, Matron, do not now complain ; Thou didst send him forth to kill, Thy command he would fulfil ; Man thou mad’st an homicide, By the hand of man he died. ’Mong the demigods of old, If their heroes were enrolled, Female virtue why preclude From their dues of gratitude ? Sacred honours, rites divine, Be Hersilia, ever thine ! * Strife that composition spurned, Fierce the flame as ever burned ; Anger hot as e’er belonged To the wronger and the wronged ; Front to front the warriors stand, Each a sure death-dealing band ; The Romans and the Sabines. TO HIS DAUGHTER, 21 To the field Hersilia flew, ’Tween them she the olive threw ! Brandished weapons nobly braved, Fathers, brothers, lovers saved ! Bade their strength by love increase, This was glory — it was peace. Female world, or maid, or dame. Emulate Hersilia’s fame ; Fan not you the flaming brand ; Dash the weapon from the hand ! THE CRUSADES. Star of Bethlehem illustrate Why should Christian Christian hate ? Why, professing saving faith Deal in massacre and scaith ? War the act, and peace the word, Contradiction strange, absurd! Blest Religion’s brave compeer, Camel-driver, do not fear : * Elevate thy Koran book, Arab, down with triumph look * Mahomet. 22 O KEEFFE S LEGACY On the Christian’s holy rood, By them steeped in Christian blood ! Bid thy crescent ride sublime, Paramount in western clime ! Should the Saracen look back On Jerusalem’s attack, Might he not with justice say, “ To our God do Christian’s pray ? Why then league, and, sword in hand, Thrust us from their holy land ? Pious zeal was mere parade: In their maniac crusade, Which committed reddest sin, Sainted Guy or Saladin ? H ow was our religion taught ? Mahomet both prayed and fought ; Yet his all-convincing blade Sure the firm foundation laid : But their prophet, how taught lie ? By forgiving clemency : Nay, his precepts recommend To a foe to be a friend : TO IIIS DAUGHTER, 23 From his lips they have a prayer, Excellent beyond compare : Here they supplicate their God To withhold tlT avenging rod, And their sins that he’d remit, And their debts that he’d acquit : What forgiveness, then, their due, Whilst resentment they pursue ? Hypocrites ! to cant and whine Words of lenity benign ! Whilst their breasts with fury burn, Prayers to imprecations turn. Hear, great Alla ! prophet hear ! Let thy justice now appear, Hurl them down perdition’s steep, On the cursed, curses heap !” AMERICAN SAVAGE WARFARE. Lo ! the iron gauntlet’s thrown ; Frighted is the dove, and flown! And that bird with gaffs of steel , Which not sense of death can feel, Dear to Pallas and to fame, 24 o’keeffe’s legacy Trumpets out the fierce acclaim. Monarch of the Lybian plain, Rouse, and shake thy shaggy mane ; Yawn, and to thy couch again, Leaving war to cruel men. Hopes of heaven, poor Indian, fix In thy god of tied up sticks ; Scour the forest, plain, and lake, Bind the prisoner to the stake ; Grief nor terror let him show, Torments yet advance but slow ; Close him, warriors, in a ring, Dismal joys his requiem sing ; Raise in yells the anthems dire, Verge him close in crackling fire ; Flesh of foes thy fair reward, Revel in the feast abhorr’d ; Sans remorse his heart devour ; He’d gnaw thine, were his the power. Or, ferocious Indian, hold, Answer make thou, warrior bold, ;f 3LL1QI Ju> S-liU H ...