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SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. 
 
 COLLECTED BY HIS SO^, 
 
 
 NEW-YORK: 
 FOR SALE AT THE PRINCIPAL BOOKSTORES. 
 
 1846. 
 

 JOHN WESTALL & CO, } JOHN MeNICOL, 
 
 Printer, 11 Spruce St. J Stereotypes 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page. 
 
 TO THE READER, 7 
 
 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 9 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The Scottish Pine, 5 
 
 The Seranade, --8 
 
 The Forest Stream, 10 
 
 The Prophecy, 12 
 
 The Stars, - 15 
 
 A Night-Storm on the Atlantic, 18 
 
 The Pirate's Song, 22 
 
 Spring, 24 
 
 The O'Kavanagh, - 27 
 
 The Dream, 30 
 
 Lines on the Death of the Rt. Rev. John England, - ... 32 
 
 Tara, 35 
 
 To Lesbia, 38 
 
 Sonnet, 41 
 
 The World of Dreams, - - 42 
 
 " Femme Greque — attendant Tissue d'un combat." - 44 
 
 The Men of our Island, 46 
 
 Sing not of Adria's waters, ..-------48 
 
 Sonnet, 49 
 
 The Song of Orra Moor, - - - 50 
 
 The Goddess for Me! ...-- 52 
 
 A Simile, 63 
 
 The Present, - 54 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ADOLPH, ...-...* 57 
 
 Dedication, ............59 
 
 Canto First, ------•••---61 
 
 Acrostic, ----.-...*-. - 71 
 
 Song, 79 
 
 To Thyrza. 32 
 
 Night, 92 
 
 Canto Second, ..-.--101 
 
 The Lament of Hellas, 107 
 
 To the Ocean, 118 
 
 Lines on the Death of the Hon. George Canning, ... - 131 
 
 Time's Mission, .-.-.-•« • - - 143 
 The Fairy's Vigil, --.---••-- 157 
 
 The Tuscan Girl, 165 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 A Poem, delivered before the Young Friends of Ireland, March 18th, 1843, 175 
 A Poem, delivered on the occasion of Mr. Wallace's Lecture on Irish 
 
 Oratory, at the Broadway Tabernacle, April 20th, 1843 - - 181 
 
 Champ de Mai. 185 
 
 SACRED MELODIES. 
 
 Christmas, • 191 
 
 Corpus Christi. 19* 
 
 Sacred Melody, 197 
 
 Sacred Melody, %** 
 
 Jephthah's Vow, - - - 201 
 
 The Leper, 2°3 
 
 Sacred Melody, 2 °4 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 The following poems of the late J. Augustus Shea are 
 offered to the public not as a complete collection of his 
 minor works, but merely, it is hoped, a judicious selection 
 from them. A complete edition of the author's lyrical 
 poems alone, as at first was purposed, would fill three 
 volumes of the present dimensions. The intended design 
 of the work, also, has been somewhat departed from by 
 introducing " Adolph ; " but as that poem contains the 
 apostrophe " To the Ocean," (as the author of which Mr. 
 Shea is more widely known and appreciated,) " Night," 
 " The Lament of Hellas," and other poems that have at- 
 tained a broad popularity as distinct pieces, it has been 
 deemed advisable to publish them in their original con- 
 nection. 
 
 Mr. Shea, during the years 1844-5, was engaged on a 
 poem, which he intended to have been the principal of his 
 poetical compositions, to be entitled " Time's Mission." He 
 had considerably advanced in completion of this design, 
 when the manuscript was destroyed at the burning of the 
 Tribune office, on the night of the 5th of February, 1845. 
 A short time previous to his death he revived many stanzas 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 of it, and these, together with some that I have written from 
 my own memory, are published as a fragment in this 
 volume. 
 
 The fugitive verses of Mr. Shea, in common with most 
 poets of the present time, in going the rounds of the press, 
 have materially suffered from the many alterations they 
 met with from the journals into which they were copied ; 
 in the present edition the poems are inserted as they were 
 written by the author. 
 
 It is with pleasure that I embrace this opportunity to 
 return my sincere thanks to the gentlemen that assisted me 
 in procuring these poems ; and, in doing so, I cannot but 
 mention the ready and polite manner in which the use of 
 the necessary magazines and newspapers in the New- York 
 Mercantile Library was granted by its gentlemanly Li- 
 brarian. 
 
 A strong feeling of duty has prompted the collection of 
 the entire of my late father's works ; and, should this vol- 
 ume meet with that favor which the opinions of the Press, 
 not only in this country but even in Great Britain, leads me 
 to anticipate, it will be followed, in the course of the coming 
 winter, by another, composed of his more extended and sus- 
 tained efforts. 
 
 New-York, October 5th, 1846. 
 
MEMOIR OF J. AUGUSTUS SHEA. 
 
 John Augustus Shea was born in the city of 
 Cork, Ireland, in the month of November, 1802. His 
 parents belonged to the middle class of society. His 
 father, who was a respectable tailor, and for many 
 years pursued business in that city, resolved to give 
 his son the benefit of a liberal education ; in attain- 
 ment of this wish, as soon as he had acquired a suffi- 
 cient knowledge of the English branches, he was, in 
 his eleventh year, placed under the tuition of a Mr. 
 Sullivan, then the most competent teacher in the city, 
 to be instructed in the Greek and Latin languages. 
 During the school vacations, he was in the habit of 
 roaming into the neighboring country parts, and con- 
 versing with the peasantry, from whom he picked up 
 such a knowledge of the ancient Irish as enabled him 
 to make several translations from that language. On 
 attaining his fifteenth year, his master having reported 
 that he had learned all that he was capable of teach- 
 ing him, he was called upon to make choice of a pro- 
 fession, when, contrary to the wishes of his father, who 
 had always cherished the hope that his son would em- 
 brace the ministry, he turned his attention to mercan- 
 tile pursuits, and entered, as a clerk, the employ of 
 Beamish & Crawford, the proprietors of the celebrated 
 Cork brewery. 
 
 Among his companions in early life were the late 
 Rt. Rev. John England, Bishop of Charleston, S. C, 
 John Hogan, the sculptor, and Daniel Maclise, R. A, 
 
10 MEMOIR. 
 
 His father having met with a reverse of fortune, em- 
 igrated with his family, excepting the subject of this 
 memoir, to the United States, in the year 1819. 
 
 In the year 1824, Mr. Shea, emboldened by the favor 
 with which his youthful poems, published under the 
 assumed name of Adolph, were received, commenced 
 the composition of an Eastern romance of the Seventh 
 Century, which he afterwards entitled " Rudekki." 
 This poem, together with extensive contributions to 
 several of the first literary periodicals in Ireland, was 
 the occupation of his leisure hours from the more im- 
 portant duties of the office. Sir Walter Scott, whose 
 friendship Mr. Shea enjoyed and with whom he had 
 frequent correspondence, when in Ireland, saw the man- 
 uscript, and expressed a very flattering opinion of this 
 poem. 
 
 He remained at Beamish & Crawford's until the year 
 1826, when he went to London. Here he was admitted 
 to the first circles of society, and became acquainted, 
 through letters of introduction, with the leading literati 
 of that day. In the winter of 1S26, Rudekki was pub- 
 lished, and dedicated, by permission, to Thomas Moore. 
 It received the favorable opinion of the Press, and sev- 
 eral lengthy notices appeared in the Reviews. 
 
 In the following year he came to this country, and 
 obtained a situation at West Point, under Col. Thayer. 
 At this beautiful place he composed many fine poems ; 
 among them the apostrophe to " The Ocean." 
 
 "Adolph, and other poems,"— the title of the first 
 volume of the author's that appeared in America — 
 was issued in 1831, and dedicated to the Hon. Stephen 
 
MEMOIR. 11 
 
 Van Rensselaer, the late Patroon, from whom Mr. Shea 
 unexpectedly received, through the hands of his son, 
 the present Patroon, a handsome present, enclosed in a 
 complimentary letter. 
 
 u In 1832 he went to Philadelphia, where he was 
 connected editorially with the Chronicle in that and 
 the following year. He was also a regular contributor 
 to the Lady's Book, and other periodicals. He then 
 went to the District of Columbia, where he was con- 
 nected with the National Intelligencer, Telegraph, and 
 Georgetown Metropolitan. Here he published a small 
 volume of his fugitive poems entitled ' Parnassian Wild 
 Flowers.' In 1839 he removed to New-York, where 
 he was connected with The Tribune since about its 
 first publication. In 1843, he published his last vol- 
 ume of poems, called i Clontarf ; or the Field of the 
 Green Banner, and other Poems.' The principal poem, 
 i Clontarf,' is a very spirited poem, in which his love 
 for his native country is finely blended with loyalty to 
 the land of his adoption."* 
 
 From the year 1843 to his death he was principally 
 engaged on " Di Visari," a tragedy, " Time's Mission," 
 a poem, and a life of Byron, (all left unfinished,) to- 
 gether with contributions to several magazines of high 
 literary merit. 
 
 On the 4th of August, 1845, Mi*. Shea went to Suf- 
 field. Conn., to deliver a Poem before the Calliopean 
 Society of that State, where he was taken sick. He 
 returned home, and died, of congestion of the brain, on 
 the morning of the 15th of August, 1845. 
 
 * New-York Tribune, August ]8th, 1845. 
 
12 MEMOIR. 
 
 His funeral was attended by a large concourse of peo- 
 ple, and the appropriate religious services were con- 
 ducted by his friend the Rev. John Power, D. D., Vicar 
 General of New- York. 
 
 His death was announced in the leading journals of 
 this country and Ireland with expressions of deep re- 
 gret, and eulogiums on his character as a man and his 
 genius as a poet. 
 
 The following beautiful tribute to his memory was 
 written by a brother-poet, W. H. C. Hosmer, Esq., of 
 Avon, N. Y. 
 
 JOHN AUGUSTUS SHEA. 
 
 Another voice is hushed — another lyre 
 
 Hangs on a dead and leafless bough unstrung ; 
 Of wrongs that curse humanity he sung ; 
 
 But changed to ashes is his heart of fire. 
 
 Far from the luckless Isle that gave him birth, 
 Wrapped in the raiment o* the grave he lies : 
 
 Though Freedom there no more finds home and hearth ; 
 Dying he thought of her green fields and skies — 
 
 Before his fading sight in dim array, 
 
 Shades of the martyred and the mighty passed, 
 And light unearthly round the minstrel cast 
 
 A harbinger of everlasting day ; 
 
 They came to guide his spirit to a land 
 
 That knows nor broken heart nor fettered hand. 
 
MEMOIR. 13 
 
 The following is an extract from an article in the 
 Cork (Ireland) Examiner, of September 5th, 1845 : 
 
 It is with extreme regret we have to announce the death of 
 one whom we can with truth say, for amability of disposition, 
 and intellectual endowments, deservedly ranked amongst the 
 highest of our countrymen and fellow citizens. A few months 
 since it was our painful task to record the death of Mrs. Shea, 
 but we still rejoiced in the fact that a young, numerous and in- 
 teresting family, had yet remaining to them an affectionate parent, 
 a talented instructor, and a noble pattern. But a few short 
 months have passed, and that revered parent is no more ! Mr. 
 Shea died at his residence at New-York, on the 15th ultimo, af- 
 ter an illness of but a few days. We not long since, on the oc- 
 casion above alluded to, stated, that after some years pursuing in 
 this city a literary career, we regret to say, more brilliant than 
 profitable, in the year 1829 he emigrated to America, where his 
 talents became fully appreciated. He, subsequent to his emigra- 
 tion, became a well-known and universally admired writer. Yet 
 in Ireland or America it was all the same : he never for a moment 
 forgot the land of his birth. Ireland ! his beloved Ireland ! was 
 his unceasing theme. Her former glories ! her present degrada- 
 tion ! How many have the desire, if they had the ability ! Yet 
 how many have both, yet still are deterred through fear of the 
 result ! He possessed all ! He fearlessly, ably, and gladly ad- 
 vocated the cause of the land of his birth ; and in asserting her 
 rights he maintained the cause of Freedom. Devotion for, and 
 indignation at his country's wrongs, has ever been his constant 
 theme. No distressed Irishman in America applied to him in 
 vain ; he always considered himself and his means, such as they 
 w T ere, the property of his country ; and many persons have, through 
 the exertion and interest of Mr. Shea, obtained situations in New- 
 York, of trust and emolument. " He was a man," of whom it maj 
 with truth be said, that " to know him was to love him." When 
 Shea ceased to exist, Ireland lost a most talented son, a fearless 
 friend, and a devoted lover. 
 
TO 
 
 J. N. REYNOLDS, Esa., 
 
 AS A TRIBUTE OF GRATITUDE, 
 
 THE FOLLOWING POEMS 
 
 ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 THE SCOTTISH PINK 
 
 The mountain-pine of Scotland ! it liveth in delight, 
 Aloft where lightning-banners lead the thunder-clouds of 
 
 night ; 
 Not from the soil that deeply lies in the lowland valleys 
 
 down, 
 Does the Pine his sceptred arm extend, or lift his leafy 
 
 crown. 
 
 But on his heritance of hights where the blood-red sunsets 
 
 play, 
 
 Like meteor plumes on a warrior's helm at the close of 
 
 battle day, 
 There — there he stands the mountain king, and a glorious 
 
 king is he, 
 
 As he sees with pride on every side his forest chivalry. 
 
 What know they of his glory ? what feel they of his pride, 
 Or of the loud-wheeled thunder trains that round his 
 empire ride — 
 
SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 They who have never seen him soar where the eagle's 
 
 vision fails, 
 From his native Highland heather dark, to wrestle with 
 
 the gales ? 
 
 " Loosed is a flood of sunlight," the gloom is changed to 
 
 And the cascades of orchestral sounds their scenic pride 
 
 unfold, 
 And, by that lustre, deeply down, each calm romantic scene 
 Is vista'd off by sun-touched glades that ope to meadows 
 
 green. 
 
 Hath all the Arab's fairy realm a glory like to this — 
 Beauty, and power, and fear, and joy, in one ecstatic bliss ? 
 One glance to those eternal pines, when storm-clouds are 
 
 unfurled, 
 Is far beyond the spell-built halls of the Genii's spirit world. 
 
 Pine trees are in Glengary, Glemoriston, Glenmore, 
 Strathglass, Lock-Shiel, Findhorn, and calm Lock-Arkaig's 
 
 shore, 
 And pine trees by the Dee shut out the pale moon's pensive 
 
 star, 
 With foliage dark of Invereauld, and the spreading of 
 
 Braemar, 
 
 But over all in pride and strength, and ancientness and 
 
 power, 
 Stands firm Clan-Alpine's banner-tree, topping the mountain 
 
 tower, 
 
THE SCOTTISH PINE. 
 
 Girt by his own dominions — deep rocks and cliffs around — 
 Unweakened by the tempest's breath or the torrent's wasting 
 bound. 
 
 Then live the pine of Scotland, that dwelleth in delight, 
 Up where the lightning-banners lead the thunder-clouds of 
 
 night ! 
 Long may its carnival of leaves be joyous in the light, 
 While all look up to that kingly tree on his throne of 
 
 ancient might. 
 
8 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 SERENADE. 
 
 I We watched the tardy sun go down, 
 
 Till darkened Mona's topmost tree. 
 And shone the star-encircled crown 
 
 Of Dian circling from the sea ; 
 And now, my dreaming girl, I bring 
 
 The offering of my heart to thee ; 
 Wake from thy slumbers while I sing, 
 
 Reveillez-vous belle endormie ! 
 
 There is a star which shineth bright, 
 
 And only lovers' eyes can see, 
 And, calm or stormy be the night, 
 
 Its home is all tranquillity : 
 That star is beauty born above, 
 
 Moving and beaming but in thee ; 
 Then wake, my own, my gentle love, 
 
 Reveillez-vous belle endormie ! 
 
 I would not be again a boy, 
 
 With mind unripe and thoughtless brain ; 
 No ! give me love's romantic joy, 
 
 And all the transport of its pain : 
 Maturity of manly bliss, 
 
 To weave with mine thy destiny, 
 And sing by midnight moons like this, 
 
 Reveillez-vous belle endormie ! 
 
SERANADE. 
 
 The world hath slaves who dare not know 
 
 The pulse, the paradise of love — 
 The passions' range, the spirit's glow, 
 
 The fire that kindleth from above ; 
 Who ne'er by moon or lesser star 
 
 Have roamed by bower or summer sea, 
 Or sung to lute or light guitar, 
 
 Reveillez-vous lelle endormie ! 
 
 Mine is the glory, thine the spell — 
 
 We both reflect their mingled pow'rs ; 
 From starry sky to leafy dell, 
 
 The universe of soul is ours. 
 Ne'er could a world, by love unblest, 
 
 Be dwelling place, my girl, for thee, 
 When rapture is life's only rest : 
 
 Reveillez-vous belle endormie ! 
 
 Then wake the lute thou 'st waked so oft, 
 
 And sing again, as oft thou 'st sung, 
 And in that silken language soft 
 
 Which thrilleth, uttered from thy tongue ; 
 And as thy accents melt along, 
 
 Like wind-harp breathings o'er the sea, 
 I '11 blend with it my moonlight song, 
 
 Reveillez-vous belle endormie ! 
 
10 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 THE FOREST STREAM. 
 
 Bright stream of the forest, 
 
 Unnamed and unknown ! 
 Thou shin'st not less brightly, 
 
 In shining" alone : 
 Smooth, calm, and transparent, 
 
 Thou glidest along, 
 To the old woods repeating 
 
 Thy myst'ry of song. 
 
 Bright stream of the forest ! 
 
 I love thee full well ; 
 Thou art to my bosom 
 
 A soul and a spell : 
 When I see thee I fancy 
 
 Thou lookest on me, 
 With the beautiful sadness 
 
 Of moonlight on sea. 
 
 Round thy spring on the mountain 
 
 Th' horizon was splendid, 
 Where all hues of the sunlight 
 
 Were gloriously blended : 
 But that summit, where rested 
 
 The firmament's glory, 
 Had no voice for thy moral, 
 
 No ear for thy story. 
 
THE FOREST STREAM. 
 
 11 
 
 From the pride of that region 
 
 Built up in the skies, 
 Thou seekest this silence, 
 
 This valley of sighs ; 
 Where the tempest, expiring, 
 
 Just mingle th its breath 
 With the dirge of the zephyr, 
 
 And sinketh to death. 
 
 Here deep contemplation, 
 
 Undazzled and calm. 
 Goes up as in Ela, 
 
 The Prophet's high psalm : 
 The wing of the spirit 
 
 Is peacefully furled, 
 While thunders are rocking 
 
 The firmament world. 
 
 Thus calm in humility, 
 
 Fearless and free, 
 My stream of existence 
 
 Glides onward like thee ; 
 A type and a promise, 
 
 Unveiled and engraven, 
 Of its ocean-ward path 
 
 To Eternity's haven ! 
 
12 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 THE PROPHECY. 
 
 Dreaming amid Cantabria's hills, 
 
 I saw the skies expand, 
 And the red thunder downward hurled 
 
 From God's unerring hand. 
 The mountains trembled, and the seas 
 
 Were palsied as it rolled, 
 And the furnace-heavens were blazing 
 
 With the lightning's firey gold. 
 
 Pale, through a tempest-shattered cloud, 
 
 The sick moon stood on high, 
 Not full, but like a nerveless bow 
 
 Half bended in the sky. 
 Then spoke a voice — a mighty voice — 
 
 A voice that filled the earth, 
 Like that Omnipotent Fiat 
 
 Which commanded light to birth. 
 
 " Behold !" — I saw Jerusalem, 
 
 'Mid her polluted towers : 
 " Behold !" exclaimed that voice again, 
 
 " Jerusalem is ours !" 
 The towers had crumbled where they stood, 
 
 The banners where they shone : 
 I looked to heaven — the sun was there, 
 
 And the crescent moon was gone. 
 
THE PROPHECY. 13 
 
 Floating on Zion's holy hill 
 
 The banner cross appears ; 
 And round the Sepulchre is drawn 
 
 A zone of serried spears : 
 Knelt the crusader host to hear 
 
 The joyous anthem poured 
 In glory to Jehovah, 
 
 For the Sepulchre restored. 
 
 The earth rejoiced in Zion's joy, 
 
 And gladness filled the sky, 
 As the various-bannered pageantry 
 
 Of the strong Crusade went by ; 
 And spoke again that warrior voice 
 
 " Behold !" — and now along 
 They moved with slow and measured pace, 
 
 And sanctity and song. 
 
 Godfrey, for whom in his own land 
 
 A bard shall wake the lyre j 1 
 Tancred, in peace a gentle ray, 
 
 In war a shaft of fire ; 
 Baldwin de Bourg, St. Julien young, 
 
 Luthold and Eustace bold ; 
 Repentant Raymond, and that chief 
 
 From Norman's fearless mould : 2 
 
 1 Tasso. 2 Robert, Duke of Normandy, the elder brother of William Rufui . 
 
 2 
 
14 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Are the martyr-host, who left 
 
 Their own delightful lands, 
 To slake with their abundant blood 
 
 Those hot and thirsty sands ? 
 They too were there, the deathless brave, 
 
 The bravest of the host, 
 And good Adhemar, 3 spared the least, 
 
 But oh ! beloved the most ! 
 
 And as that bright procession moved 
 
 So gloriously on, 
 With cross and sabre, lance and shield, 
 
 And glittering gonfalon, 
 New voices from the heavens came down ; 
 
 The sun grew brighter still, 
 And like a diadem reposed 
 
 On Zion's holy hill. 
 
 " 'T is finished !*' said that voice. Again 
 
 I saw that cloud expand ; 
 The choirs of Heaven on golden harps 
 
 Sang triumph o'er the land : 
 The mountains answered, and the seas 
 
 In choral concert rolled; 
 The dream is broke — the vision 's o'er — 
 
 The Prophecy is told. 
 
 3 Bishop of Puy. 
 
THE STARS. 15 
 
 THE STARS. 
 
 Father ! who hast set those stars, 
 
 Living benisons above, 
 Shining — shining ever, ever 
 
 With far less of light than love ; 
 O ! they seem to me as telling, 
 
 Through the dark there still is light 
 In our home of future dwelling: 
 
 Father, tell me, am I right ? 
 
 In the silence of the night, 
 
 Night so beautiful and lone ! 
 Every star in heaven's blue hight 
 
 Seems a beacon to Thy throne ; 
 And, in spirit, thus believing 
 
 Is a most consoling might : — 
 Faith so pure is undeceiving : 
 
 Father, tell me, am I right ? 
 
 They are ever to my eyes 
 
 As a life-awaking book, 
 Full of beautiful surmise, 
 
 Mystic more, the more I look. 
 Then I deem them, soul-subdued, 
 
 An Apocalypse of light, 
 Where no Human dare intrude ; 
 
 Father, tell me, am I right ? 
 
16 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Toil at midnight ! oh, 't is weary ! 
 
 But how wearier were my lot, 
 Even at midnight, lone and dreary, 
 
 If these wondrous works were not. 
 'T is my thoughtful transport, walking 
 
 Homeward in the noon of night, 
 To be with them of Thee talking : 
 
 Father, tell me, am I right? 
 
 Thinking of thy mercies, shining 
 
 Countless as those stars above, 
 Do I stand and pause divining 
 
 All those mysteries of Love ? 
 No ! but filled with Faith upholding, 
 
 Faith so singly, boldly bright, 
 I behold Thee — thus belonging : 
 
 Father, tell me, am I right ? 
 
 In this darkness of surmise, 
 
 Pausing, thinking, loving, lost, 
 Star-concentred mid the skies, 
 
 Like a seaman tempest-tost, 
 I can know not what they are, 
 
 But, so mercifully bright, 
 See Thee in each guiding star : 
 
 Father ! tell me, am I right ? 
 
THE STARS. 17 
 
 Linked with that upward thought, 
 
 Soul's affinity with them, 
 Is the brilliant star that brought 
 
 Worshippers to Bethlehem : 
 I can not, amid the whole, 
 
 Point the one — commissioned light, 
 But through it I wing my soul : 
 
 Father, tell me, am I right? 
 
 If I err, good Father, hear me ! 
 
 If I err, oh ! deign to hear ! 
 I have thought Thee ever near me ; 
 
 Else could I my sorrow bear ? 
 Every thing, the gay and solemn, 
 
 Dreams of day or thoughts of night, 
 Star or streamlet, mound or column, 
 
 Tells me — Father, am I right ? 
 
 2* 
 
18 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 A NIGHT-STORM ON THE ATLANTIC. 
 
 Fair was the mom, and calm the noon, and cool the 
 
 evening's breath, 
 And, save a bosom-heave, the sea was spiritless as death : 
 The evening beams, mid clouds of gold, went down before 
 
 our way, 
 As though they 'd lead our pilgrim-ship to lands as bright 
 
 as they. 
 
 And some, who loved the sunset-sea, were gathered on the 
 deck; 
 
 Some watched the evening star that rose, a scarce distin- 
 guished speck ; 
 
 Some praised the varying heaven, that grew more gloomy 
 and more grand, 
 
 Far, as itself from earth, beyond the skill of painter's hand. 
 
 And some bewailed the absent wind, and some their absent 
 
 feres, 
 And some, who wailed nor wind nor world, laughed out at 
 
 others' cares ; . 
 Some in that dewy time shed tears, the loveless and the 
 
 lone, 
 And some filled deep the memory-cup to loves and pleasures 
 
 flown. 
 
A NIGHT-STORM ON THE ATLANTIC. 19 
 
 In sooth, they were a varied group, in climate and in creed; 
 But braver hearts had never urged the battle's thundering 
 
 speed ; 
 And woman, young and fond, was there ; oh ! where is she 
 
 not found ? 
 By fever's bed, on ocean's surge, on war's volcanic ground. 
 
 But where 's that star of silver gone, as bright as Beauty's 
 
 eye? 
 And see yon little cloud that climbs along the silent sky — 
 'T is black, but yet 't is beautiful, beside the crimson blaze, 
 That like a conflagration fills the wanderers' dazzled gaze. 
 
 More watchful now the chieftain's eye — more loud the 
 
 growing gale ; 
 Aloft — aloft the seamen fly, and reef the baffling sail ; 
 And, oh ! too faithfully they tell how false this smiling 
 
 scene — 
 The sullen brow, the thoughtful eye, and the abstracted 
 
 mien. 
 
 Afar — afar the waters wake, the Tempest shakes their 
 
 track, 
 And o'er the sky-fields legion-clouds are moving big and 
 
 black — 
 He comes — he comes "with winged speed, strong hand and 
 
 lightning-eye, 
 Lifts the huge ocean from its bed and blazes through the 
 
 sky. 
 
20 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 And now he scatters flash on flash — now thunders peal 
 
 on peal — 
 Now with mad surges sweeps the decks — now lifts the 
 
 naked keel — 
 "Call up the watch!" — no time for sleep — away the 
 
 bulwarks go — 
 Thunders above, and fiends around, and boiling gulfs below ! 
 
 Danger, ana Storm, and Death, and Fear, and thou, undying 
 
 Night ! 
 Say, have ye charmed from Hell's deep fires the workers 
 
 of your might? 
 Fling ye your Titan rage to heaven to shroud its holy blue, 
 With all your strength of darkness lest one star should silver 
 
 through ? 
 
 Oh ! for the morn, the sacred morn ! 't were hope to those 
 
 who roam — 
 No beacon but the lightning's flash, no pathway but the 
 
 foam. 
 Thou, God of mercy ! spare, oh ! spare, till daylight be 
 
 begun, 
 That we may, like the Parsee, die beneath the blessed sun ! 
 
 Our prayer is heard, the storm is lulled, we breathe of hope 
 
 and Heav'n, 
 And from the rosy gates of Morn the demon-clouds are 
 
 driven ; 
 
A NIGHT-STORM ON THE ATLANTIC. 21 
 
 The light ! the pure and living light, once more illumes the 
 
 main, 
 The burning fever-hour is past; we live — we live again ! 
 
 Thou wiliest " not the sinner's death!" Oh, God! thy 
 
 words are truth ; 
 I feel in my maturer hours what I but learned in youth ; 
 And while my future journey tends o'er Life's uncertain 
 
 sea, 
 However dark my fortune's frown, oh ! turn my hopes to 
 
 Thee. 
 
22 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 THE MATE'S SONG. 
 
 Up, Sons of the Ocean ! 
 
 'T is morn in the bay, 
 Yon prize must be ours 
 
 Ere the close of the day. 
 Remember your triumphs, 
 
 Be true to your band, 
 Cool courage, keen eye, 
 
 And invincible hand. 
 
 My ship is my kingdom, 
 
 My subjects her crew; 
 They are valiant, and fearless, 
 
 And ready, and true. 
 My flag is a beacon 
 
 Of wonder and wo, 
 And the nations pay tribute 
 
 Wherever I go. 
 
 Yon galley that sails 
 
 In her glory along, 
 Has hearts that are gallant, 
 
 And hands that are strong ; 
 But each heart shall be pulseless, 
 
 Each cheek shall be pale, 
 When the voice of our thunder 
 
 Goes out on the gale. 
 
THE PIRATE'S SONG. 23 
 
 She is laden with spices 
 
 Brought out of the East ; 
 She has gold for the coffers, 
 
 And wine for the feast ; 
 But long ere the sunlight 
 
 Shall westward decline, 
 That ship shall go down, 
 
 And her treasures be mine. 
 
 What matter to us 
 
 To what kingdoms or pow'rs 
 Her signal belongs, 
 
 While the ocean is ours ! 
 From the north to the south, 
 
 From the east to the west, 
 Our flag is the proudest, 
 
 Our ship is the best. 
 
 For death, or for conquest, 
 
 We always prepare, 
 They crave not for mercy 
 
 Who know not to spare. 
 No foot of contempt 
 
 O'er our ashes shall tread, 
 For the ocean we sweep 
 
 Will encircle our dead. 
 
24 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 Was there ever yet by the Poet seen, 
 
 In the lapse of his sweetest dream, 
 
 A queen so fair as our rustic Queen — 
 
 Whose brows are bound 
 
 With wild flowers round, 
 
 Whose robe is one of brightest green — 
 
 As she walks by the woodland stream ? 
 
 She cannot abide a moment there, 
 But around and beneath her feet 
 Spring blossoms, and flowers, and odors rare ; 
 All glorious things 
 Whose Spirit flings 
 New life through the love-inspiring air, 
 From its chambers of retreat. 
 
 ! they love her well — the queenly Spring ! 
 
 And from morn till night they throng, 
 While, every hour, fresh Breezes bring 
 Around her path, 
 Such charm she hath, 
 Their wondrous lyres from Heaven, and sing 
 In glad successive song. 
 
SPRING. 25 
 
 See ! even now the trees unfold 
 Their waving banners of love, 
 Lilac, and red, and white, and gold, 
 Like scutcheons seen 
 On a field of green, 
 Its hues untouched and its power untold ; 
 Spread out in light above. 
 
 Here, and there, and every where, 
 
 Beside the stream and trees, 
 She goeth forth with a voice of prayer — 
 A voice whose tone 
 Is hers alone, — 
 And calleth us all around to share 
 Her leafy chapel of ease. 
 
 And there a concert, full and strong, 
 
 Through the branching roof-tree goes; 
 For birds, in varied notes, prolong, 
 From morn till night, 
 Like waves of light, 
 Hymn after hymn, their liquid song, 
 Till mortals seek repose. 
 
 O ! 't is a goodly sight to see, 
 
 And a joyous sound to hear — 
 In opening bud and blossoming tree, 
 3 
 
26 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Renewing thus 
 Life's youth to us — 
 The power and love of the Deity, 
 And the bird-songs sweet and clear. 
 
 And looking on every beauteous thing 
 
 To fields and gardens given, 
 And gladsome birds of the beautiful wing ; 
 And the deep blue sky 
 Of our hopes on high ; 
 O ! how could I welcome the queen of Spring, 
 Nor worship the King of Heaven ! 
 
THE O'KAVANAGH. 27 
 
 THE O'KAVANAGH. 4 
 
 The Saxons had met, and the banquet was spread, 
 And the wine in fleet circles the jubilee led ; 
 And the banners that hung round the festal that night, 
 Seemed brighter by far than when lifted in fight. 
 
 In came the O'Kavanagh, fair as the morn, 
 
 When earth to new beauty and vigor is born; 
 
 They shrank from his glance like the waves from the prow, 
 
 For Nature's nobility sat on his brow. 
 
 4 In the year 1408, Arth Mac Murchard O'Kavanagh, King of Leinster, then only 
 in the twenty -fifth year of his age, engaged, with his forces, those of the Duke of 
 Lancaster, and totally defeated them, at the -western extremity of Dublin,, where the 
 Phoenix Park now stands. This defeat was so mortifying to the national feelings of 
 the vanquished, that it was concluded to effect by the agency of the assassin that 
 which defied the concentrated powers of open hostility. Mac Murchad was, accord- 
 ingly, invited by the lords of English descent to a banquet; and, full of that confidence 
 and honor to which Ireland can proudly ascribe her political ruin, he went attended 
 by his bard and only one servant. The bard for some time delighted the assemblage 
 with some of the fond and festive airs of his country ; suddenly he sang of incitement 
 to battle, when Mac Murchard, either comprehending this as an intimation of 
 impending danger, or displeased at his minstrel's unbidden change to a theme so 
 nnsuited for a scene of festivity, arose, and beheld the house surrounded by English 
 soldiery. Brandishing his sword, and casting around a look of indignation and con- 
 tempt, he successfully fought his way through the assembled guards, mounted his 
 horse, and on arriving at home declared war against his treacherous foe. This war he 
 continued until he compelled England to acknowledge his lawful sovereignty of Lein- 
 ster, and pay him tribute for English settlement within his jurisdiction. 
 
28 
 
 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Attended alone by his vassal and bard ; 
 No trumpet to herald — no clansmen to guard — 
 He came not attended by steed or by steel : 
 No danger he knew, for no fear did he feel. 
 
 In eye and on lip his high confidence smiled — 
 So proud, yet so knightly — so gallant, yet mild ; 
 He moved like a God through the light of that hall, 
 And a smile, full of courtliness, proffered to all. 
 
 " Come pledge us, Lord Chieftain ! come pledge us !" they 
 
 cried ; 
 Unsuspectingly free to the pledge he replied ; 
 And this was the peace-branch O'Kavanagh bore — 
 " The friendships to come, not the feuds that are o'er." 
 
 But, minstrel ! why cometh a change o'er thy theme ? 
 Why sing of red battle — what dream dost thou dream? 
 Ha ! " Treason " 's the cry, and " Revenge " is the call ! 
 As the swords of the Saxon surrounded the hall. 
 
 A kingdom for Angelo's mind ! to portray 
 
 Green Erin's undaunted Avenger, that day ; 
 
 The far-flashing sword, and the death-darting eye, 
 
 Like some comet commissioned with wrath from the sky. 
 
 Through the ranks of the Saxon he hewed his red way— 
 hrough lances, and sabres, and hostile array ; 
 
THE O'KAVANAGH. 29 
 
 And, mounting his charger, he left them to tell 
 The tale of that feast, and its bloody farewell ! 
 
 And now on the Saxons his clansmen advance, 
 With a shout from each heart, and a soul in each lance. 
 He rushed, Hke a storm, o'er the night-covered heath, 
 And swept through their ranks, like the angel of death. 5 
 
 Then hurrah ! for thy glory, young Chieftain, hurrah! 
 O ! had we such lightning-souled heroes to-day, 
 Again would our Sunburst 6 expand in the gale, 
 And Freedom exult o'er the green Innisfail. 
 
 5 And it came to pass that nighty that an Angel of the Lord came ; and slew 
 in the camp of the Assyrians a hundred and eighty five thousand. — 4 Kings, 
 xix. 35. 
 
 6 The Irish national banner, sometimes called the Galgrena ; the latter term 
 signifies, tt The Brightness of the Sun, or the Sunburst." 
 
 3* 
 
30 
 
 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 Inscribed to the Memory of 
 MISS MARY MURDOCK ELLIOTT. 
 
 I dreamed, last night, an Angel came to me, 
 With smiles of holiness and looks of love, 
 
 Where truth, and beauty, and tranquillity, 
 Such as the Gospel tells us dwell above, 
 
 Were shining with a splendor softly bright, 
 
 That fascinates and soothes th' undazzled sight. 
 
 The face was such as seldom we behold, 
 
 And then in childhood — female childhood — fair; 
 
 When rosy health and beauty, both, enfold 
 Lips, cheeks, and eyes in magic atmosphere, 
 
 Sublimed by pure intelligence — the Mind 
 
 Encircling them — as precious things enshrined. 
 
 Methought, I well remembered I had heard 
 
 Of a fair child, whose life, two summer's long, 
 
 Was like the visit of some beauteous bird, 
 That fills the woodland with surpassing song; 
 
 But, while we listen, raptured with its lay, 
 
 Expands its wings of light and flies away. 
 
THE DREAM. 31 
 
 Words, far more faithful than the Painter's skill, 
 Had pictured her to me — her soul, intense 
 
 With innate knowledge, waiting on her will, 
 Looking or speaking its intelligence — 
 
 Her brow like moonlit marble, when the air 
 
 Declines mid heaven and earth one cloud to bear — 
 
 Her cheeks like spring-roses, looking out 
 From alabaster vases, and her mouth — 
 
 Lovely alike in smiles or playful pout, 
 
 And eyes like starlight in the sparkling South, 
 
 And hair that caught in wandering ringlets bright, 
 
 And gave, while it reflected, life to light — 
 
 All these I well remembered in that dream; 
 
 And, gazing on the Angel's face, I thought 
 That Memory, smile by smile, and beam by beam, 
 
 The features of the child before me brought; 
 And my mind felt 't was she -*- the young and fair — 
 Whom words, with breathing truth, had pictured there. 
 
 Now, in my waking faith, that such things are — 
 That children, like that child, are only given 
 
 To be to us as Bethlehem's guiding star — 
 A promise and a monitor from Heaven — 
 
 I cannot waive the truth that it was she, 
 
 Who, in that dream, last night, appeared to me. 
 
32 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 RT. REV. JOHN ENGLAND, 
 
 LATE BISHOP OF CHARLESTON. 
 
 A glory hath departed ! 
 
 A vision hath retired ! 
 A planet, bright with holiness, 
 
 Hath in mid-heav'n expired! 
 A saint, of God's creation, 
 
 Hath passed away from earth ; 
 A spirit, full of grace, hath sought 
 
 His home of heavenly birth. 
 
 But all his Gospel splendors 
 
 Remain among us yet, 
 In all the mellowed truthfulness 
 
 Of day whose source is set. 
 The glad and golden promise, 
 
 That passeth not away — 
 The living Truth — the spoken Light 
 
 Of Everlasting Day. 
 
 How beautiful the evidence, 
 The mem'ry how sublime, 
 
 Of those whose life, etherealized, 
 Outlives the death of Time. 
 
RT. REV. JOHN ENGLAND. 33 
 
 Who, by the rock of ages, 
 
 Where Titan billows toss, 
 Lean on the anchor of the Faith — 
 
 The refuge of the Cross. 
 
 I 've seen the sacred mitre 
 
 First placed on England's brow; 
 I Ve seen him bear the Gospel weight 
 
 And heard his virgin vow. 
 I 've seen him leave his native isle, 
 
 To minister afar — 
 The Prophet of the Wilderness, 
 
 Beneath the western star. 
 
 He 's been Religion's pilgrim — 
 
 The Propaganda's voice, 
 That cried unto the dead in soul, 
 
 11 Awake ! arise ! rejoice !" 
 And now, from toil reposing, 
 
 He shareth the reward — 
 The good and faithful servant's gift — 
 
 The sunlight of the Lord. 
 
 No more the crowded temple, 
 
 No more the Senate sage, 
 Shall hear, through him, the thunders dread 
 
 Of Heaven's inspired page ; 
 
34 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 No more from him the Islands learn 
 
 God's vindicated law ; 
 What Paul at Eome and Athens preached, 
 
 And rapt Ezekiel saw. 
 
 On whom shall fall his mantle — 
 
 The robe of awful trust, 
 To tell that God alone is Life, 
 
 And Man but moulded dust? 
 Pray, pray, ye circling nations, 
 
 The Spirit to descend, 
 And give to Christians such a Chief — 
 
 To mankind such a Friend. 
 
TARA. 35 
 
 TAM. 
 
 Quis genus -flSneadum, quis Trojae nesciat urbem, 
 Virtutesque, yirosque, aut tanti incendia belli. — Virgil. 
 
 Who knows not of Tara — the lofty and proud — 
 The virtues, the glories, the woes of her race ; 
 
 And the thunder-bolts, launched from the death-laden cloud, 
 That made her for ages a desolate place ? 
 
 Oh ! was not that shout upon Tara of Kings, 
 
 On that day when our People stood up in their might, 
 
 Like the rapturous burst of a thousand strong rills, 
 From bondage and darkness to freedom and light? 
 
 My faith in my country, though ardent as flame, 
 Hath witnessed its triumph ! — her People are still 
 
 As faithful to Freedom — her nature and name — 
 As when her own Kings were enthroned on that hill. 
 
 In that day was thy Future, my Country ! unrolled — 
 
 A Future undreamed of for ages before — 
 When, in through its light, as through portals of gold, 
 
 We saw Years of delight trooping on to thy shore. 
 
 And the martyrs stood round them — the martyrs whose dust 
 Has made Tara of Kings a more sanctified name — 
 
 To whom Erin committed her cause as a trust, 
 
 Which they sealed with their blood in her midnight of 
 fame. 
 
36 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 And they handed it down, a bequest — a demand 
 To their children for ever, till Freedom again 
 
 The light of her presence would give to the land, 
 And see them assume all the bearing of Men — 
 
 Men full of one soul, springing up into might — 
 Unrolling her charter — proclaiming its powers — 
 
 Denouncing the Saxon — asserting their right 
 As it was — as it must be ! eternal and ours ! 
 
 And, out from that Future, a voice, like the roll 
 
 Of the ocean at midnight — when Silence is Queen, 
 
 Came in as the promise of God to the soul, 
 
 While the multitude prayed in the awful serene. 
 
 At a moment like this — a volcano of time — 
 The blood of their fathers still fresh as it fell — 
 
 Their pulses a fever — their passions sublime — 
 The air of their Land still vibrating her knell — 
 
 The Kings — their own Kings — in their palace of years — 
 Their Sunburst above waving joy to the Sun — 
 
 Their minstrels and heroes, their harps and their spears — 
 And the shouts of the Island for victories won: — 
 
 It was fancy ? no matter ! has fancy no fire ? 
 
 In that moment the Chief could have proved to the earth, 
 That time has not quenched the electric desire 
 
 Of an Irishman's heart for the land of his birth. 
 
TARA. 37 
 
 Has the world e'er beheld so sublime a display ? 
 
 A whirlwind of passions self-poising at will — 
 A cataract stayed in its mid-heaven way — 
 
 An ocean, mid hurricanes, silent and still ! 
 
 Thus, poised on the breath of Demosthenes, stood 
 The Athenians of old ere they rushed to the field, 
 
 While the spirit of Pallas impassioned their blood, 
 And Macedon shrank from the light of her shield. 
 
 But the hour was not then : yet 't is coming full fast, 
 Through that avenued Future of glory which brings, 
 
 Refulgent and proud, from the tomb of the Past, 
 Her sceptre of empire to Tara of Kings ! 
 
38 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 TO LESBIA. 
 
 Where, Lesbia ! where is all the fire 
 Of Song, I fondly deemed thine own ? 
 
 Methinks the motive of thy lyre 
 
 Hath lost its kindling warmth of tone ; 
 
 What spirit, envious of thine art, 
 
 Hath robbed thine altar of the heart? 
 
 Would I not rather hear thy words, 
 Whose sound is music to my soul, 
 
 Chasing thy love along the chords, 
 
 Till Rapture dazzled Thought's control, 
 
 And Earth appeared — so sweet and bright - 
 
 The planet sphere of Song and Light ? 
 
 Would I not rather see thy brow 
 Lustrous with joy, as oft before — 
 
 Joy I can fancy there even now, 
 
 Like sunlight, shining round and o'er 
 
 Lilies, that ope and brighten on, 
 
 Long after all that light is gone? 
 
TO LESBIA. 39 
 
 Haply it were not meet to share 
 With me the secret of this change, 
 
 And thou would'st undivided wear 
 A grief so sudden and so strange, 
 
 And hide the truth, that ne'er beguiles, 
 
 That Earth hath tears as well as smiles. 
 
 Yet would I, for the pleading sake 
 Of youth and beauty warmly thine, 
 
 One philosophic truth awake 
 
 Within thy bosom's hallowed shrine, 
 
 To which thou canst mid darkness turn, 
 
 And feel its radiant glories burn. 
 
 If Life be but a pleasing dream, 
 Grief of that dream is but a part; 
 
 If that unreal be, why deem 
 This a reality of heart? 
 
 No! Lesbia ! live to love and laugh — 
 
 Seize of Life's dream the wiser half. 
 
 Remember, too, if Youth will steep 
 Its wings of golden light in tears, 
 
 'T will lose its potency of sweep, 
 And half its brilliancy of years ; 
 
 The pathway of the stars resigned, 
 
 Darkness, indeed, remains behind. 
 
40 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 The moon, on which we love to look, 
 And read new glories every hour — 
 
 The music of the woodland brook — 
 The poetry of leaf and flower — 
 
 These — even these refuse to teach 
 
 The spirit impotent of reach. 
 
 Dost thou remember not how we, 
 
 In Summer evenings, watched the moon, 
 
 And heard the bright, melodious sea 
 Sing answer to her spheric tune? 
 
 Could souls, with wings in weeping furled, 
 
 Have heard the songs of their sweet world? 
 
 Wake, Lesbia! then, the kindling fire 
 Of Song and Beauty still thine own; 
 
 Restore to thy impatient lyre 
 Its glad inheritance of tone; 
 
 And let me still believe no hand 
 
 But thine its witchery can command. 
 
SONNET. 41 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The name a Patriot builds upon his age, 
 
 Based on enduring deeds, with honor crowned, 
 
 Towering o'er Parties blind and bigot rage, 
 
 And frowning on the deathful wars they wage, 
 And teaching earth, to its remotest bound, 
 Greatness sublime — philosophy profound — 
 
 Who would not, spurning every lesser aim, 
 Aspire to immortality like this — 
 
 To link his memory with his country's fame, 
 
 High as her hope — eternal as her name, 
 A beacon o'er the perilous abyss 
 
 Where perish glories Earth may not reclaim? 
 Such is the name that meets the circling sun, 
 The universal Perfect — Washington. 
 
42 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 THE WORLD OF DREAMS. 
 
 The world of dreams — the world of dreams ! 
 
 Where the glorious visions play! 
 It hath happier people, and sweeter streams, 
 And holier bowers, and brighter beams, 
 
 Than the world we walk by day. 
 
 The world of dreams — the world of dreams ! 
 
 To the field of the mimic dead, 
 A thousand bright creations come, 
 Like armies called by the gathering drum, 
 
 Ere the first hot blood be shed. 
 
 The world of dreams — the world of dreams ! 
 
 I love the Night's fond sway; 
 For she leads us on to that spirit-land, 
 "Where we may wander, hand in hand, 
 
 With those who have passed away. 
 
 The world of dreams — the world of dreams ! 
 
 Few sorrows can enter there ; 
 There 's food in its bowers, there 's health on its hills, 
 There are music and wine in its sparkling rills, 
 
 And freshness in its air. 
 
THE WORLD OF DREAMS. 43 
 
 The world of dreams — the world of dreams! 
 
 When up the Morning springs; 
 It dies like the bird on the winter's plains, 
 But the golden plumage-hue remains 
 
 Undarkened upon its wings. 
 
 Thus, world of dreams — sweet world of dreams, 
 Thy glory liveth on! 
 
 And, oft mid the toilsome noontide hours, 
 
 I '11 fancy I walk thy fairy bowers : 
 
 So linger my love and my thoughts upon 
 Thy memory's rays when thou art gone. 
 
44 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 ON SEEING A PRINT, ENTITLED 
 
 'Femme Greque — attendant Tissue d'un combat.' 
 
 Who, from yonder rocky peak, 
 Watches with dilated eye, 
 
 Streaming hair and pallid cheek, 
 Lips apart and prisoned sigh, 
 
 O'er the bloody field below — 
 
 Battle's fortune — friend and foe ? 
 
 Home abandoned and forgot, 
 
 War unfeared and foe disdained, 
 
 She has climbed the fearful spot, 
 Foot of man has never stained. 
 
 Where the eagle fearless sleeps, 
 
 There the wife her vigil keeps. 
 
 Look ! a boy of youthful years, 
 Eeckless of his father's fray, 
 
 Eeckless of his mother's fears, 
 Sleeps the battle-hour away. 
 
 Happy, happy, happy boy, 
 
 Still dream on thy dream of joy ! 
 
THE GREEK MOTHER. 45 
 
 " Hah ! he fronts the lines of death, 
 And the cannon's murdrous flash; 
 
 Now I feel its fiery breath, 
 Now I hear the sabres' clash ; 
 
 Where is he ? oh ! Saviour mild, 
 
 Spare, oh ! spare him, for his child !" 
 
 Fear not ! if the God of love 
 
 Grant a prayer, that prayer is thine; 
 
 See thy ark's returning dove, 
 See the branch of promise shine. 
 
 Freedom triumphs — Heaven has smiled — 
 
 God has saved him for his child. 
 
46 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 THE MEN OF OUR ISLAND. 
 
 The men of our Island ! what think ye of them ? 
 
 Does the blood of their ancestry beat in their veins ? 
 Does Freedom their prowess deny or condemn ? 
 
 Or has Cowardice fastened one link of their chains ? 
 
 The men of our Island ! the fearless and brave, 
 
 Whose banner the proudest flashed out mid the proud, 
 
 Whose sword, ever drawn to unfetter the slave, 
 
 Flashed out on the foe like the bolt from the cloud — 
 
 Who dares to impugn them — their valor — their worth, 
 Descending, unlessened, through proud generations ; 
 
 In the days of her freedom the light of the earth — 
 In the days of her bondage the Moral of Nations ! 
 
 In the love-bow'rs where Nature and Beauty are one, 
 In the Senate where Eloquence mastery wields, 
 
 At the board where the hours in festivity run, 
 
 In the wars that are loud with the clashing of shields — 
 
 In the homes where the virtues spring sacredly forth, 
 Like the waters that gush from the holy Zem-Zem; 
 
 In all — they are first mid the spirits of earth ! 
 
 Now ! the men of our Island ! what think ye of them? 
 
THE MEN OF OUR ISLAND. 47 
 
 Though their own mountain breezes embrace them no more, 
 And the vallies that cradled the dreams of their youth, 
 
 The sweet spells of Memory only restore, 
 They love them with deeper and holier truth. 
 
 The " coelum non animam mutant" which tells 
 The dominant feeling, triumphant o'er time, 
 
 Now — now in their bosoms more glowingly dwells 
 
 Than when Liberty walked on those mountains sublime, 
 
 They know not, who 've seen not their own native hills, 
 
 In the distance of waters forever retire, 
 The pulse in the heart of the Exile that fills 
 
 Its innermost shrine with unquenchable fire. 
 
 Through this land, in each section, their patriot pray'rs 
 For their loved native Island in harmony rise ; 
 
 And where is the pulse more electric than theirs 
 When Hope flashes out from her darkness of skies ? 
 
 i 
 From the deserts of Ind and the shores of Kathay, 
 
 To the farther Atlantic, they worship her name ; 
 
 While time, every minute, in passing away, 
 
 But gathers fresh incense to hallow the flame. 
 
 Then, hurrah, for the men of our Isle and her worth ! 
 
 Soon — soon must the stricken of centuries be, 
 With heralds of Freedom like them through the earth, 
 
 Mid the nations around her, "great, glorious, and free !" 
 
48 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 SING NOT OF ADRIA'S WATERS. 
 
 Sing not of Adria's waters, 
 
 And the classic shores they lave, 
 And the beauty of their daughters 
 
 Reflected in each wave. 
 Of the shore-side bowers retreating 
 
 To Edens of delight, 
 Where Love and Music meeting, 
 
 Enchant the starry night. 
 
 But sing the mountain glory 
 
 Of the heaven-sustaining hight, 
 "Where, rich in Freedom's story, 
 
 The Hudson rolls in light, 
 And where, as evening closes, 
 
 The purple shadows creep, 
 O'er beds of sweet wild roses, 
 
 Inviting Love to sleep. 
 
 Each scene by Adria's waters 
 
 Is red with Tyrant's wrongs ; 
 The memory of their slaughters 
 
 Is mingling with her songs. 
 By Hudson's happier river, 
 
 When Love attunes the lyre, 
 The chords alternate quiver 
 
 With Love's and Freedom's fire. 
 
SONNET. 49 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 In the romantic morning of my days, 
 When, at my side, wherever Fancy led, 
 
 My harp, well skilled in legendary lays 
 
 Of ladies, loves, and chiefs, and battle dread, 
 Tradilioned through long lines of reverent dead, 
 
 Was mine, and we, haply at early morn 
 Or eve, with contemplation roamed along, 
 
 And, from the beam that kissed the dewy thorn, 
 Silently stole the sparkling light of song, 
 Or watched the hills the parting day prolong, 
 
 And then the deep blue firmament unfold 
 Its starry archipelago, and thus 
 
 Morning and eve, beneficent, unrolled 
 
 Their mystic spells and lived in song for us. 
 
50 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 THE SONG OF ORRA MOOR. 7 
 
 Translated from the Scandinavian. 
 
 Let the glad sun on Orra Moor shine out with cloudless 
 
 light ! 
 Could I but see, from the hill top-pine, of Orra Moor one 
 
 sight, 
 I to its loftiest bough would climb, and tireless try to see, 
 From that high place of gazing, if there my mistress be. 
 
 Oh ! could I know what shade she seeks, or strays among 
 
 what flowers, 
 That dwell with all their foliage pride deep in the gaudy 
 
 bowers, 
 Their blossoms and their branches, which hide my mistress 
 
 there 
 Behind Seclusion's envious veil, from their deepest roots 
 
 I 'd tear. 
 
 7 In the course of some learned commentaries on the Poetry of the Scandina- 
 vians by Lord Kaimes, he introduces, illustratively, a rough and truly Hyperborean 
 translation of this poem, which, it is believed; unmeritedly suffered in the very 
 uncouth keeping to which his lordship, by fact or consent, committed its primi- 
 tive and intrinsic beauties. After much and ardent study of its original merits 
 it has been given a more modern, and for that, if not for any other reason, a 
 more cognizable costume. 
 
THE SONG OF ORRA MOOR. 51 
 
 The clouds that rush to Orra, upon them I would fly, 
 And hire each lightning pinion from the dwellers of the sky; 
 But wings I Ve none — the stork and swan their plumage 
 
 will not lend, 
 For none, alas ! to Orra flies, and none can be a friend. 
 
 Spirit! enough, the summer days — the best of days that 
 
 crown 
 The year and heart — are come, with light like darts, on the 
 
 eye-lids down ; 
 In deep, unwelcome darkness, the summer days may flee, 
 Yet wilt thou not outstrip my search — in vain thou fliest 
 
 from me. 
 
 Canst thou more adamantine strength than bolts of iron find? 
 Has Earth within its bosom aught which can more surely 
 
 bind? 
 Love in the heart in triumph sits, unfettered by control — 
 Fetters the mind, and captive leads the feeling and the soul. 
 
52 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 THE GODDESS FOR ME! 
 
 Yes, yes, I have heard of your female divinities, 
 
 Of Juno, and Pallas, and Venus the fair ; 
 But my heart never throbbed with such classic affinities, 
 
 As to travel Mount Ida for creatures of air. 
 Yon vale, which outshineth the splendor of palaces, 
 
 Where the woodbine embraces the sycamore tree, 
 And holdeth the dews in iis odorous chalices, 
 
 In its green shades encloses the Goddess for me. 
 
 Her blue eye is full of the spirit's expression, 
 
 The locks down her neck shine like sunlight of gold : 
 Her smile puts to flight the darkest depression, 
 
 A study to read and a spell to behold. 
 Her shoulders and bosom are perfectly Phidian, 
 
 Her motion, as air, is elastic and free, 
 Her love is more true than the laws of the Median — 
 
 Oh ! the maid of the valley 's the Goddess for me ! 
 
 When the moon on the bosom of ocean lies dreamingly, 
 
 And the white waves, like swans, in soft music expire, 
 My naiad then from her pillow comes beamingly, 
 
 To mingle her song with the soul of her lyre. 
 Her heart rushes up with its blushing realities, 
 
 More eloquent far than mere language can be — 
 Say, dreamer! what now of your cold idealities? 
 
 O T the maid of the valley 's the Goddess for me ! 
 
A SIMILE. 53 
 
 A SIMILE. 
 
 Yonder silver moon appears, 
 Daughter of unnumbered years ! 
 See, how beautiful and bright, 
 She moves amid those isles of light, 
 Heav'nly planet ! shining through 
 That glorious firmament of blue. 
 
 But, alas ! across thy way 
 Clouds in envious darkness stray ; 
 But they lessen not thy light, 
 Ever young and ever bright — 
 Still as beautifully fair 
 As no cloud had wandered there. 
 
 Thus the mind, to virtue given, 
 Ranges through its native heaven; 
 Careless of the world, and proud, 
 In native light, o'er storm or cloud. 
 
54 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 THE PRESENT. 
 
 "We may build historic rhymes, 
 
 We may rouse the slumbers 
 Of the glorious by-gone times, 
 
 With harmonious numbers — 
 We may rest in Fancy's bow'rs — 
 
 Dream mid visions pleasant — 
 But for us the living hours ! 
 
 The Real is the Present! 
 
 Earth is now a battle-field, 
 
 Where our foes are stronger; 
 But the men who will not yield - 
 
 They are slaves no longer. 
 They are freemen from the hour 
 
 They proclaim the charter, 
 Men of pride and men of pow'r — 
 
 Conqueror or Martyr. 
 
 In this age when Mind is free, 
 Eagle-plumed and bearing 
 
 Upward, and the bright " To Be," 
 Burns with lofty daring — 
 
THE PRESENT. 55 
 
 Will not Erin too arise, 
 
 And her bondage sever, 
 Plume her pinion for the skies, 
 
 And be free for ever ? 
 
 Ireland ! well I know that thou 
 
 Once held'st royal station — 
 Golden crown upon thy brow — 
 
 Empire in thy nation. 
 What of that ? the tyrant binds 
 
 Prelate, patriot, peasant — 
 Up, and rouse thy master-minds — 
 
 The Real is the Present. 
 
 They who dared their rights proclaim, 
 
 And thy pulses quicken 
 With the pure Promethean flame — 
 
 They are downward stricken. 
 What had they to do with Right? 
 
 What with rebel Reason? 
 Knew they not the first is Might, 
 
 While the last is Treason ? 
 
 But the God of Truth sublime, 
 Though he scourgeth slowly, 
 
 In his own allotted time 
 Will lift up the lowly; 
 
56 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 And our Island of the West, 
 Bursting gyves and prison, 
 
 Yet shall stand with plumed crest. 
 Chainless and uprisen. 
 
 Deem ye not your duty done — 
 
 Tyrants ruling o'er ye — 
 Independence to be won — 
 
 Victory before ye. 
 'T is a duty high and grand, 
 
 And its path is pleasant — 
 'T is to free your native land ! 
 
 Up, and seize the Present ! 
 
ADOLPH. 
 
TO THE 
 
 HON. STEPHEN VAN RENSSELAER. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 Were the various qualities which have so justly endeared you to society less 
 extensively known, or less duly appreciated, it would he as much my duty as my 
 pleasure to attempt a detail of the motives which have induced me to dedicate 
 this little volume to you. But, happily for the inadequacy of my ahilities, the 
 public estimate of your reputation requires merely the remark that, in selecting a 
 patron from amongst those whose names would enhance the respectahility of any 
 publication, I could not but consider you one of the most distinguished. 
 
 It may not, Sir, be altogether irrelevant here to observe, that, in the generosity 
 and promptitude with which you have permitted me to inscribe this work to you, 
 I recognize your determination to take even humble talent by the hand, and aid 
 it forward in its laudable exertions. How far the failure of many gifted American 
 authors is attributable to the apathy of the influential, I am unable to say ; but 
 that it has been materially so, few will have the temerity to deny. If talent is 
 to be produced to the country, it must be husbanded : if to be preserved, it must 
 be guarded : and, as a first step towards its successful cultivation, America, and 
 "the Magnates of the Land," must arise from that unnational, unjust, and dis- 
 honoring servility which patronizes few publications, however excellent, that bear 
 not the recommendation of European criticism. 
 
 Never, probably, was the truth of the position 
 
 K ' T is distance lends enchantment to the view," 
 
 so practically illustrated as in this country. "Week after week we see the literary 
 refuse of a foreign market disgorged upon these shores, and swallowed with the 
 most wilful avidity ; and why 1 because it comes recommended by the interested 
 reviewers of the British metropolis ; and, yet, Sir, it is well known that the press 
 
60 DEDICATION. 
 
 of Great Britain is not less venal in literary than in political assumptions. . 
 ( Opinions are not purchaseable. ) Does not the question then naturally enforce 
 itself here, " Is the slavery of the mind more endurable or less degrading than 
 that of the body?' 7 — If not, the revolution of America is incomplete, and it is 
 still necessary assiduously to inculcate that, while she possesses any intellectual 
 promise, it must not be neglected, nor her children permitted to prostrate them- 
 selves in exclusive worship before the shrines of European literature. 
 
 In advancing these observations, I am rather apprehensive that, should the 
 following poems ever appear before one of the literary inquisitions of Great 
 Britain, the whip and the wheel will have little repose ; but they can be harm- 
 lessly endured, as, in these observations I am not personally interested. I am 
 not, and hope never to be, considered a professional poet. *This unpretending little 
 work is the amusement of such leisure as more important and laborious duties 
 have, from time to time, offered me. Should the public favor it with their ap- 
 probation I shall feel happy in having solicited you to become its patron; should 
 their verdict consign it to condemnation, I shall still enjoy the happiness of 
 having been permitted, thus publicly, to inscribe myself, 
 
 Sir, 
 
 Your obliged servant, 
 
 J. AUGUSTUS SHEA. 
 New-York, July, 1831. 
 
ADOLPH. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 I. 
 
 Well, truth is strange ! ay, even than fiction stranger ! 
 
 In each man's life some passage of romance 
 Appears, as bright mid deeds of death and danger — 
 
 Glory and — prize of prizes — Beauty's glance, 
 And Fortune — human life's eternal changer — 
 
 As his who aimed at all by list and lance — 
 Who hawked his love o'er mountains steep and stony, 
 Or sweetly sung it under some balcony. 
 
 II. 
 When, from her trembling minarets, the East 
 
 Saw Christendom around her Zion poured, 
 And Spain, not Spain of Inquisition-priest, 
 
 But Spain fresh laureled from the Moorish sword, 
 Dazzled the earth with tournament and feast, 
 
 And gathered round her gardens and her board, 
 
 The fairest of our bosoms' fair invaders; 
 
 With princes, courtiers, bards and serenaders. 
 
 6 
 
62 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 Those were gay times when monarch Woman bore 
 
 The sovereignty, and Man the titled sound, 
 And to her swelling bosom none could soar, 
 
 But o'er the battle field and pennoned ground ; 
 And knights, who failed to gain with victor gore, 
 
 Had gold to seek and craft to keep when found — 
 Those were Romance's play-days I allow ; 
 But then we 're not without romancers now. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I 've one at hand whom I would humbly proffer, 
 
 Provided you will listen to his story ; 
 No doubt it may be long; but then 't will offer 
 
 Pictures of love, and gallantry, and glory ; 
 And sometimes, nothing loth of scold and scoffer, 
 
 A lesson for the bright-haired and the hoary — 
 But while we 're thus premising and impleading, 
 Had we not better enter on our reading ? 
 
 v. 
 Scarce fifteen summers passed o'er Adolph's head, 
 
 When he was parentless and homeless too; 
 Cast on the world to earn his orphan bread — 
 
 A world where friends are faithless as they 're few. 
 Little he learned and little had he read, 
 
 And his soft, snow-white hand no labor knew; 
 He had a mind yet undeformed by art, 
 A gentle face, but far more gentle heart. 
 
ADOLPH. 63 
 
 VI. 
 When morning looked along the golden east, 
 
 Adolph would walk the solitary strand, 
 Behold the gorgeous sky as it increased, 
 
 And watch its influence o'er the sea and land; 
 See every beam upon the sweet dews feast, 
 
 And hill and vale, as by some wizard's wand, 
 Filled with a million re-awakened flowers, 
 And then exclaim, " a glorious world is ours !" 
 
 VII. 
 
 " Why do I hear the young and happy heart 
 Filling its home with misanthropic sighs ? 
 
 Why do I see, mid gilded halls, depart 
 
 Health from the cheeks and gladness from the eyes? 
 
 Why do I see some self-tormenter start, 
 
 And fret, and foam, by which he daily dies, 
 
 And these where pleasure falls in golden showers ? 
 
 'T is strange — 't is strange ! a glorious world is ours ?" 
 
 VIII. 
 
 " From the day's birth-hour to the evening's close, 
 
 I can find music in the rushing ocean, 
 Fruit on the tree and fragrance in the rose, 
 
 Pictures in th' eve-clouds' panoramic motion, 
 Freshness and peace in the green vale's repose, 
 
 And mountain -altars for the soul's devotion, 
 Morals in streams that flow, and flowers that fall ; 
 Beauty in each — Omnipotence in all." 
 
64 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 IX 
 
 " c Qui fit Macenas ! et cetera — 't is a question 
 Still standing like a cause without effect ; 
 
 The world's unphilosophic indigestion 
 
 Treats it with most impassive disrespect; 
 
 Mankind ! I 'm grieved the world has nought to rest you on ; 
 But as for me, while those fair fields are decked 
 
 With feasts of fruitage and with beds of flow'rs, 
 
 I still must say, a glorious world is ours I" 
 
 x. 
 
 Thus would the orphan Adolph muse and think, 
 
 When mingling with the world's complaining throng ; 
 
 Thus would he weave his thoughts' unpolished link, 
 (For spite of friends' advice he 'd speak in song,) 
 
 Thus watch the rough wave from some beetling brink, 
 And let his rhymes as roughly roll along. 
 
 Sages ! if this were profitless employ, 
 
 Adolph, you know, was but a friendless boy ! 
 
 XL 
 
 Boyhood ! the word hath magic in its sound : 
 When the young laughing heart made holiday — 
 
 Ran through the sunny noon its restless round, 
 Then sank to slumber soft, o'ercome with play, 
 
 And even in sleep a world of pleasure found — 
 And wandered with his playmates far away — 
 
 Plundered again the linnets from their nest, 
 
 And warmed them with as innocent a breast- — 
 
ADOLPH. DO 
 
 XII. 
 Watched if his kite still caught his straining view — 
 
 The hoop with some chivalric rival rolled — 
 The mimic boat around the basin blew — 
 
 Rejoiced when well the long-aimed marble told — 
 Mustered his troop, which, every moment, grew 
 
 More uncontrolable and uncontroled — 
 Oh ! happy, happy, happy, happy time, 
 Terque-quaterque — without care or crime. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But boyhood changes like a chrysalis, 
 
 And to as many changes of existence. 
 He breaks from out his web-like world of bliss, 
 
 By Nature's sole and mother-like assistance ; 
 Then, a gay butterfly, he roams to kiss 
 
 Earth's beauty-flowers, regardless of resistance, 
 And, fast forgetting all his moral lessons, 
 Unburdens those he meets of their quintessence. 
 
 XIY. 
 
 And the attendant passions, free and fast, 
 
 In the dilated bosom's garden grew; 
 And soon, though still as various and as vast, 
 
 The forest's foliage and the ocean's blue, 
 Did he forget or loathe them ; they had past, 
 
 As friends of " auld lang syne" give place to new; 
 
 New ends, new thoughts, new faces and new feelings, 
 
 And the Future's bright millenium of revealings. 
 
 6* 
 
66 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XV. 
 How truly does the human heart unfold, 
 
 And grow towards great Nature's wondrous end, 
 The means as wondrous still. Untaught, untold, 
 
 Towards one goal our aspirations tend; 
 Where we 're remodeled in another mould, 
 
 And sent our solitary way to wend — 
 Love, fear, hope, envy, pride, ambition, power, 
 Glory, hate, avarice for our death and dower. 
 
 XVI. 
 Life is but death from manhood to the grave; 
 
 The passions fill our funeral, and bear on, 
 As winds, that, while the ship rides safely, rave, 
 
 And sink into a sated calm, when gone ; 
 Yet, why should we be weeping o'er that wave — 
 
 I, ere I pass the mortal rubicon, 
 One moment will forget the other shore, 
 And make the waves return me " one cheer more !" 
 
 xvn. 
 And, one by one, did Adolph cast away 
 
 All that, in younger years, he found amusing; 
 He wondered, how the trinkets of past play 
 
 Could be considered, even by boys, worth using; 
 His lyre imparted a maturer lay, 
 
 And proved how fast young passions were infusing 
 Theirs with his spirit ; and he now divided 
 That lay 'twixt different themes, as you and I did. 
 
4D0LPH. 6? 
 
 XVIII. 
 He still admired the silence of the shore — 
 
 But then another should be there to share it ; 
 The song at which the boatman dropped his oar — 
 
 But then another should be there to hear it ; 
 When mute, some bank to lean his forehead o'er — 
 
 But better should another's bosom bear it ; 
 The embracing breeze, but happier, by the double, 
 Were woman there to save that breeze the trouble. 
 
 xix. 
 
 Woman ! how early doth thy magic mingle 
 With every dream of every heart below ; 
 
 The rich, the poor, the married and the single ; 
 The last they say are happiest — I do n't know ; 
 
 For, when I felt the name of woman tingle 
 In my young ears, I was nor boy nor beau, 
 
 And wed in that ambiguous bet weens, 
 
 Which never let me know what " single " means. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Now Adolph most religiously attended 
 
 His church, and paid attention to his prayers ; 
 
 But more (a practice which he should have mended] 
 To Heaven's fair clients, as they came up stairs ; 
 
 And towards them was he vigilantly bended, 
 That wheat may not be lost amid the tares ; 
 
 So that, when Beauty came, he may refer 
 
 The aspirations of his soul to her. 
 
68 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XXL 
 
 Then, when the termination would draw nigh, 
 Adolph would at the portal take his stand, 
 
 To see th' unconscious idol passing by, 
 
 And touch his chapeau with a courtier's hand, 
 
 And utter such a deeply wilful sigh, 
 
 As even a saint could not misunderstand ; 
 
 And if it rained, out spoke the happy fellow, 
 
 x 
 " Madam, do deign to honor my umbrella !" 
 
 xxn. 
 " You 're very kind, Sir ; but my carriage waits." 
 
 44 Madam, they 're thick as at Lord Money's marriage 
 Permit me, then, to see you to the gates, 
 
 The rain falls fast, and you may have a tarriage ; 
 Moreover, Ma'am, the unpropitious Fates 
 
 May turn your hoped-for carriage to miss-carriage?" 
 " Oh ! no, Sir ; I can recognize my driver." 
 " My arm ?" 
 
 " What ails it, Sir? Ha, >t is M'lvor!" 
 
 " La ! bless me, what a cruel fuss it is, 
 
 Pressing and crowding so on one another !" 
 
 " I '11 lead, Ma'am, and you sha' n't be long amiss ; 
 "M'lvor, here!" 
 
 " I wish I had my brother, 
 
 That he, kind Sir, may give you thanks for this!" 
 " Indeed? I thought that it could be no other! 
 
ADOLPH. 69 
 
 he not in 
 
 The Guards ! Fitz-Eustace Trimly ? 
 es, yes, and you 're his beautiful fae-simile !" 
 
 ^hen you have known him, Sir ?" 
 
 " Yes, many a day. 
 the Divan 1 we 've often sate together ; 
 •metimes we 'd stroll in there to wait the play, 
 Drink coffee, smoke cigars and puff a feather. 
 Or — 
 
 "Does Fitz-Eustace smoke, do tell me — say; 
 How vile ?" 
 
 " No, Madam, except in wet, cold weather." 
 t now the " untoward " carriage onward rolled, 
 ith driver, dressed in livery laced with gold. 
 
 S e gave him, then, the Trimly House address; 
 
 "If chance," she said, "should thither guide your roan, 
 You could not think to come ten miles express, 
 
 I 11 then be most desirous to atone 
 For your distinguished gallantry's excess." 
 
 " Ten thousand miles to see yourself alone, 
 Were but a trifle, Madam." 
 
 " Sir, adieu !" 
 He doffed his hat, bowed lowly, and withdrew. 
 
70 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XXIII. 
 Adolph now saw, that, on the amorous stage, 
 
 He was no unsuccessful debutante, 
 Considering his unintriguing age, 
 
 And that his opportunities were scant. 
 His spirit soared to true Parnassian rage, 
 
 Intoxicated as a mad Bacchante, 
 And home he fled, as quick as lightnings play, 
 Upsetting several children in his way. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And, now and then, his frenzied eye would roll 
 Along the living sky, to seize a thought ; 
 
 He watched the warrior clouds that westward stole, 
 In mantles dark, with gold and saffron wrought. 
 
 Sun, streams, and flowers to his enkindled soul 
 Their tributary illustration brought; 
 
 And soon the versifying diagnostics 
 
 Ripened to several sonnets and acrostics. 
 
ADOLPH. 71 
 
 &CVQ8tit. 
 
 Man, in the world's beginning, slept away, 
 In vacant dreams, the solitary day; 
 Senseless and sad was he, till woman's eyes 
 Smiled on the scene, and made it paradise. 
 
 Thus, Eve of my lone world! — for it is lone, 
 Reft of the only life its lord had known — 
 I felt unhappy, yet I knew not why ; 
 Mid fields and flowers my language was a sigh. 
 Like Eden's first, I found the breathing spell — 
 You were the want I felt, but could not tell. 
 
72 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 This was a boyish flash ; he soon became 
 
 Himself again. He never fancied faces 
 Whose blood contained aristocratic flame, 
 
 Whose couch of silk was spread in Fortune's places. 
 He rather loved the unassuming dame, 
 
 Whose features beamed her heart's unconscious graces, 
 On such he passionately loved to look, 
 Because their faces were their bosoms' book. 
 
 XXYI. 
 
 Adolph had now attained his eighteenth year; 
 
 A very amatory age, no doubt ; 
 When every glance we feel, and sigh we hear, 
 
 But bring the fall-blown flowers of passion out; 
 And every love-word 's kept for woman's ear, 
 
 At masquerade or ball, at play or rout; 
 Each formed to lead her trusting heart astray, 
 Wooing to win, and winning to betray. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But such was not of Adolph's soul; he saw 
 Woman as rich in sinlessness as bloom, 
 
 And sighed that she should bend beneath the law 
 That makes our final tenement the tomb; 
 
 That lips, whence he his soul's rich food may draw, 
 And eyes that, when they oped, dispelled its gloom, 
 
 And bosom that would make a seraph sigh 
 
 For its elastic warmth, should ever die. 
 
ADOLPH. 73 
 
 XXVIII. 
 I 've seen him, hours on hours, gaze on a child — 
 
 A lovely female child — with eyes of blue, 
 And golden hair luxuriantly wild, 
 
 Which ever and anon she backward threw, 
 And every curl with varying lustre smiled, 
 
 As yellow harvests with the morning dew; 
 And then she laughed, and, fawn-like, leaped away, 
 To join her partners and partake their play. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And he would watch her mid the infant crowd, 
 And mark her young heart's bursting exultation, 
 
 The eye enkindled and the laughter loud, 
 Like th' Arab genii's treacherous divination. 
 
 It is the sun that gilds and paints the cloud, 
 While floating by, within his elevation. 
 
 But see! the beam is past — the cloud is dun; 
 
 Life is that cloud, and childhood is that sun 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " Sweet child ! thy father's hope — thy mother's pride, 
 The idol of their mutual love and care ; 
 
 Thou 'It grow like the young palm tree by their side, 
 Thy dew their kiss, thy breeze their breath of prayer ; 
 
 And they will be thy guardian and thy guide, 
 Till some gay heart will see thee wondrous fair, 
 
 Take thee unskilled the wicked world to roam, 
 
 To brave the storm or founder in the foam !" 
 
 7 
 
74 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " I know not how it is ; but when the lyre 
 Of the enraptured bard would sing the praise 
 
 Of Woman, and the virtuous desire 
 
 She shoots into his heart, as suns do rays, 
 
 Tears come to darken and to damp its fire, 
 And Sorrow's wailing mingles with his lays — 
 
 Thorns are her path from girlhood to the grave, 
 
 Of Love and Man the martyr or the slave." 
 
 xxxi r. 
 
 Such was the theme of Adolph's artless strings; 
 
 Such the chameleon-food his spirit found, 
 When he would fly from less ideal things, 
 
 To walk on his accustomed evening round, 
 To hear the music of the zephyrs' wings, 
 
 Which o'er him waved with soft, balsamic sound, 
 And seemed to him the breath of Beauty's daughters, 
 Singing afar beside the falling waters. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Now Adolph deemed the wedded life divine, 
 And sought some heart as loving as his own, 
 
 That he may to her sovereignty resign 
 The unpolluted, undivided throne 
 
 Of his enamoured spirit ; and recline 
 Upon a bosom which had never known 
 
 The touch of Sin ; with its own lustre smiling, 
 
 Young, gentle, undefiled and undefiling. 
 
ADOLPH. 75 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 He went to church, of course ; but, I must say, 
 His thoughts could never shoot as far as Heaven ; 
 
 When half way up they always went astray ; 
 
 And he would start to find them downward driven, 
 
 Settling on some young creature fair as May, 
 
 When leaves and blossoms to the bowers are given . 
 
 And there they lingered, frailly fugitive ; 
 
 But we 've been boys ourselves, and must forgive. 
 
 xxxv. 
 One Sunday, in the Summer's fair beginning, 
 
 He went into the temple to adore ; 
 And, sinking to his wonted mode of sinning, 
 
 Beheld a face he had not seen before ; 
 " Not very handsome, but extremely winning." 
 
 And, as he gazed, he loved her more and more. 
 We '11 just observe the outlines of her cast, 
 As she became his first love and his last. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Her young, elastic form knew no defect — 
 Glad as the free gazelle and light as air — 
 
 Her feet were beautiful as you could select 
 Amid the far-famed Oriental fair — 
 
 By Fashion's fickle trickery undecked ; 
 Like that of the Madonna, did her hair 
 
 Spiritually repose along the snow 
 
 Of the half-bended brow that shone below. 
 
76 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Her eyes were blue as heaven., from which they seemed 
 To have drawn the sacred fire that seized your soul, 
 
 When, from beneath the silk-bound lids, they beamed, 
 And sinlessly your love and reason stole; 
 
 And you 'd have longed to have one moment dreamed 
 Upon her rounded bosom's virgin knoll, 
 
 And the unrifled buds that lay below, 
 
 Like crimson berries cast upon the snow. 
 
 xxxvm. 
 Her cheek displayed the lily and the rose — 
 
 Her ever smiling lips the innocent pleasure, 
 Which always the unguilty heart bestows, 
 
 Making her wealthier than Golconda's treasure. 
 Such was her form. — Omniscience only knows 
 
 The silent virtues treasured without measure 
 Into her heart, increasing from her birth; 
 For it was yet untouched by things of earth. 
 
 xxxix. 
 And Adolph loved her; and he longed to be 
 
 Near her, and gaze upon her gentle face, 
 He cared not for the passion-lights that see 
 
 Of love but the unspiritual embrace ; 
 He loved her with the soul that loved to flee 
 
 From th' erring crowd to mark the sunset's pace. 
 For, like that sun, the zone of light that bound her 
 Was brighter than the world that moved around her. 
 
ADOLPH. 77 
 
 XL. 
 
 With Love came Love's companions, Hope and Fear ; 
 
 And Adolph longed to see the Sabbath day, 
 That he may at the worship-house appear, 
 
 And, after six days' feverish delay, 
 Behold that face so dangerously dear, 
 
 And, while beholding, melt in dreams away, 
 Like saints when kneeling at th' absording shrine, 
 Or like the pearl in Cleopatra's wine. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 And he would picture hours of unborn eves, 
 
 When, with that heaven-eyed virgin by his side, 
 
 Sitting within the willow's house of leaves 
 
 That stood beside the streamlet's minstrel tide, 
 
 He could relate how Boyhood's heart receives 
 Excess of joy, when Beauty has replied 
 
 With words which are his wealth, and pride, and pleasure; 
 
 For Woman's love is like Aladdin's treasure. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 It was a glorious Sabbath morn — the people 
 Were thronging to their usual devotion ; 
 
 Bells poured their mingling music from each steeple, 
 Even sweeter than the song of summer ocean, 
 
 When each pursuing wave melts to a ripple — 
 So Adolph quickly put himself in motion; 
 
 Had more than usual trouble at his toilet, 
 
 And with his hair, lest the rude air should spoil it. 
 
 7* 
 
7B SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XLII1. 
 
 Well ! Adolph came, and knelt, and sighed, and prayed — 
 Prayed most devoutly that he might behold, 
 
 Amid the growing crowd, his " blue-eyed maid." 
 His prayer was granted ere its breath was cold ; 
 
 He saw once more her hair's Madonna-braid, 
 Her eyes' soft languish and her figure's mould; 
 
 Her cheek was pale — he smiled ! but could not tell 
 
 Why he should smile to see her look unwell. 
 
 xliv. 
 He watched her every motion : if the breeze 
 
 Happened to waft a lock from out its place, 
 He wished to have a breeze's wing to seize 
 
 Such opportunity to kiss her face ; 
 If I told half he wished it might displease. 
 
 At last, he wished to be the bit of lace 
 That bound the violets, lest she should lose 'em, 
 That rose and sank upon her budding bosom. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 They met — they spoke — they loved ! When evening came, 
 And, to the golden baths which ocean gave, 
 
 The Sun went down to cool his brow of flame ; 
 And, lengthening o'er the strand, wave after wave 
 
 Made murmuring music, then would Thyrza's name 
 His heart and soul absorbingly enslave ; 
 
 For Nature, in her most controling hour, 
 
 Had nought for him like absent Thyrza's power. 
 
ADOLPH. 79 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 There is a well-remembered walk, whose trees 
 Hang from their meeting arms a canopy 
 
 Of woven leaves, through which the busy breeze 
 Admits the sun-gems to the sparkling Lee ; 
 
 Here lovers wander, thick as summer bees — 
 Some to unite, and some to disagree. 
 
 Thither went Adolph, not to join the throng, 
 
 But thus to speak his burning soul in song : 
 
 Song* 
 
 When, for the fields of boundless space, 
 
 Th' unprisoned soul unfurls his wing, 
 Its home an undiscovered place, 
 
 Its mem'ry an unheeded thing. 
 Oh ! happy he who then reposes 
 
 With thee, to brighten death's eclipse, 
 By the pure love thy heart discloses 
 
 In blessings through thy trembling lips. 
 
 The courier dove that left my ark, 
 
 Returned with promise green and bright ; 
 My fate has never yet been dark, 
 
 And yet my hope assumes no light; 
 It is not that the world possesses 
 
 No charm to win a mortal's love ; 
 But that the soul for ever presses 
 
 Forward for lands that lie above. 
 
80 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Yet, if the world can e'er reveal 
 
 Aught to console us while we die, 
 It is to see, to hear, to feel 
 
 Our fond and sinless partner nigh. 
 To feel her tear of sorrow falling, 
 
 To see her hope unspoken shine, 
 To deem her voice an angel's calling — 
 
 Thyrza ! with thee such death be mine. 
 
 XLVIL 
 
 'T is a dark subject for a lover's lyre ; 
 
 At least 't is not the subject I would choose ; 
 No ! let me rather at the steak expire, 
 
 With wine, in which I '11, dying, dye my muse ; 
 Did I, Anacreon, ever tame the fire 
 
 Of Love with Griefs unalcoholic dews ? 
 Even wanting change, did I betray thy wishes, 
 And turn like " them ere " dying dolphin fishes * 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 No, no ! I 'd sooner give the change to others 
 
 Than change myself, Anacreon ; so would Moore, 
 
 Who 's made you known to daughters and to mothers, 
 And with true Teian gallantly, be sure. 
 
 Not one of thy exuberant sighs he smothers, 
 But spreads a golden veil-work to allure ; 
 
 Behind which souls like Jupiter and Juno 
 
 Can just — or jest — or — but, no matter, you know. 
 
ADOLPH. 81 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Moreover, glorious Bard of Wit and Wine, 
 
 And, far more strong than either, Beauty's sighs, 
 
 He 's added several Little hints to thine, 
 
 Which, I am proud to say, our daughters prize, 
 
 And keep beneath their pillows till they pine, 
 Like Autumn fruit in love's voluptuous skies, 
 
 So, from the Thames to the smooth Susquehanna, 
 
 They 've all renounced the forte for the piano. 
 
 L. 
 
 Now may you see our youthful lovers straying, 
 
 In the cool Summer evenings, forging fetters 
 
 For their young hearts ; and, each to each, conveying 
 
 More love in looks than others do in letters. 
 In hers the sun-bright hope of love was playing, 
 
 And his was joyful as unprisoned debtors ; 
 And soon her breast was full of several pleasures, 
 And several poems sketched in several measures. 
 
82 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 &0 £$)£*?*♦ 
 
 How happy the zephyr that kisses thy lip, 
 
 And on thy fair bosom reposes ; 
 While, ah ! not one drop of delight can I sip 
 
 From the dimple that smiles mid the roses. 
 And is it because I Ve a soul and a heart, 
 
 To feel every spell thou inspirest, 
 And say, in my transport, how lovely thou art, 
 
 That when I so speak thou retirest. 
 
 'T is true, thou art young, and a stranger to love, 
 
 Yet, sweet, 't is for this I adore thee ; 
 For the innocent spirit that comes from above 
 
 Still dwells in its purity o'er thee ; 
 Can I then to strange altars of Beauty retire, 
 
 My real devotion concealing? 
 No, no ! let me rather this moment expire 
 
 With my fondest, my earliest feeling. 
 
ADOLPH. 83 
 
 LI. 
 Never before did Thyrza's happy breast 
 
 Receive the tribute of a poet's lyre ; 
 And this she often to her bosom pressed, 
 
 And just as often felt th' increasing fire ; 
 She loved her Adolph dearly, and confessed 
 
 That she no better partner could desire — 
 Not to himself, of course, for various reasons ; 
 But tongues are ever busy in love's seasons. 
 
 LIL 
 
 And now they loved each other so that never, 
 At least but seldom, were they seen asunder ; 
 
 No doubt if Fortune parted them for ever, 
 
 And they survived a day, 't would be a wonder. 
 
 In fact, 't would be a mortal sin to sever 
 
 Those brothers of Kathay — but that 's a blunder! 
 
 No matter ; worse have been committed, I know : 
 
 The tunnel and the trick at Navarino. 
 
 L1II. 
 
 I really do revere the Muscovite, 
 
 Whose half-barbaric policy succeeded 
 In making French and British guns unite 
 
 To crush the Moslem's tiers ; 't was all he needed. 
 'T was they made smooth the Balkan's barrier hight, 
 
 Till all save Istambol itself was ceded. 
 It was, indeed, a most " untoward " event 
 To the three Isles' half-pensioned parliament. 2 
 
84 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 LIV. 
 I know not how Saint Denis and Saint James 
 
 Could bend their saintships to the savage Czar ; 
 Nor care I how the kings of Seine and Thames 
 
 Have rolled the thunders of their strength afar ; 
 Enough for Freedom that their mingled flames 
 
 Have thinned the clouds that dimmed her Eastern star; 
 On that proud day was half a century won, 
 When Kings outwitted stood by Freedom's gun ! 
 
 LV. 
 
 Well ! Adolph passed one sentimental year 
 In single blessedness ; but Love's hot passion 
 
 Loses its patience by continued wear ; 
 Moreover he was not an imp of Fashion, 
 
 Or regular virtue-trading buccaneer, 
 
 Nor any other buck whom we could lash on; 
 
 And then, lest either of them should miscarry, 
 
 They very prudently resolved to marry. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 To marry ! oh, how big with definitions 
 
 Is that one little word! and, oh! what years, 
 
 What lives of gratulations and contritions, 
 
 Joy, hope, fears, smiles and grief too deep for tears, 
 
 And change of brow, and country, and conditions, 
 'T would take to tell the thousand names it bears ! 
 
 To Virtue's soul 'tis Fortunatus' purse, 
 
 To changeless Crime a judgment and a curse. 
 
ADOLPH. 85 
 
 LV11. 
 When Autumn's varied leaves o'ertop the hill — 
 
 The green, the brown, the golden, and the red; 
 When mourning winds the nowerless gardens fill, 
 
 And streams wail louder through their deepening bed; 
 When the wide landscape 's sorrowfully still, 
 
 As when we stand beside the recent dead, 
 When Death appears in every thing around, 
 Even to the leaf that rustles on the ground — 
 
 LVlll. 
 Methinks that mellow season is the best 
 
 For lovers to walk forth. The autumn scene 
 Conveys a glorious feeling to the breast ; 
 
 Not the light gaity of April's green, 
 But something never yet by words expressed ; 
 
 So softly glad — so spiritually serene, 
 That lovers, filled with its pervading charms, 
 Melt with a sigh into each other's arms ; 
 
 LIX. 
 
 And cling with mutely eloquent embrace, 
 
 As though they too expected to expire ; 
 While, from the furnace of their hearts, each face 
 
 Is deeply filled with love's reflected fire. 
 But my lone heart refuses to retrace 
 
 The scenes to which I once could sweep my lyre ! 
 'T is sad mid distant hours the chords to waken, 
 To friends or scenes departed or forsaken. 
 
86 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 LX. 
 
 The Autumn sun went down in pomp and pride; 
 
 And the young queen-moon bent her silver bow, 
 Discharged her shafts along the landscape wide, 
 
 And made all softly beautiful below, 
 And Adolph, with his Thyrza by his side, 
 
 Wandered beside the Lee's romantic flow; 
 Untiringly attempting to foresee 
 What e'er for them was in futurity. 
 
 LXl. 
 
 He now appeared unusually mute ; 
 
 And what he spoke had not the least relation 
 To what was in discussion, not dispute; 
 
 And he would start, and, seeing his stagnation, 
 Seek, unsuccessfully, to substitute 
 
 Some other subject for their conversation. 
 And Thyrza wondered greatly, for she could not 
 Divine the matter — or, perhaps, she would not. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 If the latter, she was right; for Adolph soon 
 
 Most formally solicited her hand; 
 Her heart was his already, as the moon 
 
 Did often witness. She did not withstand, 
 But granted it as smilingly as June; 
 
 And both were blessed as any in the land ; 
 And now they homeward turned, and oft, that even, 
 With hands close-clasped, they thanked all-bounteous 
 Heaven* 
 
ADOLPH. 87 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Bat " the course of true love never does run smooth," 
 
 At least to that eternal ocean, where 
 We bury all the passions of our youth, 
 
 And with a more corrected judgment steer. 
 Some merely ask the breath of Love and Truth 
 
 To glad their matrimonial career; 
 And our young lovers looked for nothing more ; 
 But winds wont always waft without the ore. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Adolph was walking down the verdant lawn 
 
 That gently slanted to the ripples' kiss ; 
 The night-noon wore the amber of the dawn, 
 
 Perhaps because his Thyrza shared his bliss ; 
 And never since Creation first was drawn 
 
 From chaos into ether's broad abyss, 
 Were lovers' dreams more bright than they 'd have spoken, 
 Had Thyrza's father not their visions broken. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 To Adolph's startled brain he held a pistol, 
 
 Full charged with the dishonor of his daughter : 
 
 But she, becoming mediator, kissed all 
 
 His fears away, and vowed that Adolph sought her 
 
 By Virtue's wealth. "Pshaw," said her father, "is't all 
 Your hero brings ? — that 's merely what a cotter 
 
 Brings to his wife ; but think of the doubloons 
 
 Of Captain Longspur of the third dragoons !" 
 
88 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 " Virtue, indeed ? a very pretty price 
 For an annuity of ten thousand pounds; 
 
 Besides, the blood — still greater sacrifice! 
 
 And Longspur's promised baronetcy — Zounds! 
 
 I say, Sir ! shift your quarters in a thrice ; 
 And never poach for game upon my grounds. 
 
 Moreover, I 'm too old a bird by half, 
 
 To let my young ones be ensnared by chaff." 
 
 — LXVII. 
 
 "Father! your kneeling daughter deign to hear? 
 
 I cannot love another man " — 
 
 " Indeed ? 
 Why Longspur's uncle 's a right reverend peer, 
 
 Now dying without issue, and well feed 
 For voting 'gainst the Queen the other year." 
 
 " Then, Father of my father, Thou wilt heed 
 My supplication ! Cast me from Thy throne 
 If Adolph I forsake ; my loved, my own !" 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 She rushed, she clung into his circling arms ; 
 
 And Adolph closely pressed her to his heart: 
 " Speak to me, speak! and lull these wild alarms, 
 
 Which tell me we have only met to part ; 
 Speak, Adolph; for thy gentle voice disarms 
 
 Fate of its judgment — JDanger of its dart. 
 Oh, cruel, cruel ! could a father fold 
 His daughter thus, yet bargain her for gold ? 
 
ADOLPH. 89 
 
 Lxrx. 
 
 It were an agonizing task for me 
 
 To trace that scene of melancholy through — 
 To see what I could not then tearless see, 
 
 And mark each line which love and duty drew. 
 They parted, like the branches of a tree 
 
 Blasted by lightning when it greenest grew ; 
 They parted ! Oh, 't would rend the stoniest heart, 
 To see the parting when such lovers part. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Her father deemed it prudent to remove 
 
 Thyrza from even a visit to the spot, 
 Where, that sad night, she pleaded for her love ; 
 
 Thinking that, from it, he would be forgot; 
 And bade the meek and melancholy dove 
 
 Trim her young wing for flight; but Thyrza thought 
 There still remained a chance of re-uniting 
 With Adolph, keeping thus both hearts from blighting. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 A pauper, who her daily pittance waited, 
 
 To travel as a note-taker was willing ; 
 Provided that her appetite abated, 
 
 Or that "young miss" would bribe her with a shilling. 
 The latter was applied ; and she, elated 
 
 With the prospective profit of fulfil ing 
 Her lady's errand, grew both safe and speedful. 
 Lovers, what think you — are not paupers needful? 
 
90 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 " My dearest Adolph!' , — thus the note was penned — 
 " Prepare your steeds some little time before 
 
 To-morrow's noon, and when they 're ready, send 
 A courier who, in passing by our door, 
 
 At ten, A. M., precisely, will extend 
 
 A sword-hilt towards the balcony — restore 
 
 That to its sheath, and then hold up a glove, 
 
 Marked with an ' M,' and then for thee and love ! 
 
 lxxui. 
 " One moment lost, the billows bear me on ; 
 
 I know not where my father has decreed — 
 Nor care I, if I lose the only one 
 
 For whom I lean upon this broken reed. 
 My heart is breaking; all, but hope, is gone — 
 
 Thou art that hope. The stirrup and the steed, 
 The smile, the sigh, the love-vow and the dell, 
 Freedom, and love, and life — till then farewell !" 
 
 lxxiv 
 
 Adolph was musing by his chamber light, 
 And fearfully the midnight wind swept by ; 
 
 His lattice showed a prison's rocky hight, 
 Boldly defined against the clear cold sky ; 
 
 And through the wind, proclaiming the hours' flight, 
 Deeply came down the warders' varying cry, 
 
 The gloomy voices died through heaven's expanse ; 
 
 And round the ramparts went the bayonets' glance. 
 
ADOLPH. 91 • 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Before him the tall temple spire arose, 
 
 Piercing the sky, from out the curtain-trees 
 
 Of many a generation's cold repose ; 
 
 And, as in reverence, lessening to a breeze, 
 
 The low wind murmuring moved. To be of those 
 Who shared the whitened tombs' unbroken ease, 
 
 And from a world of infamy depart, 
 
 Became the passing prayer of Adolph's heart. 
 
 LXXYI. 
 
 And the deep river, by its shipless bank, 
 
 Bearing its mute morality along, 
 Beneath the moonbeam's vigil rose and sank, 
 
 And rose and sank its dull and drowsy song ; 
 Then the bright skies, where pilgrim souls have drank 
 
 Immortal dews amid the starry throng, 
 That make th' unbounded heavens in sparkling showers, 
 One vast magnificent wilderness of flowers. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Adolph now sighed for the Chaldean's lore ; 
 
 And gazed intensely on the million lights, 
 Which, as he gazed, but multiplied the more, 
 
 Like armies gathering on the heavenly hights. 
 His fettered spirit struggled to explore 
 
 Those mystic suns of our creation's night; 
 But far beyond the impotence of Man 
 They lived — and thus his humbled feelings ran : 
 
• 92 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 So beautifully fair, 
 
 I 've seen the night-hour never ; 
 There 's brightness in the air, 
 And music in the river. 
 
 No shade — no cloud 
 
 The moon to shroud 
 That moves so meek and slowly, 
 
 Mid isles of light, 
 
 The pure — the bright, 
 The beautiful and holy. 
 
 Does she yon glorious hight 
 
 Eternally inherit, 
 To beacon with her light 
 The disembodied spirit ? 
 
 And those bright isles 
 
 That gild with smiles 
 The sea of heaven's dominions — 
 
 Have they been made 
 
 In flower and shade 
 To rest its pilgrim pinions ? 
 
ADOLPH 93 
 
 Or are they worlds like this, 
 
 Through space and darkness sweeping, 
 With one brief hour of bliss 
 To glad an age of weeping ? 
 And have their spheres 
 The hopes, the fears, 
 The passions and the pleasures, 
 Fever of fame, 
 Ambitious game, 
 And earth's delusive treasures ? 
 
 Or will the fond and fair, 
 
 Who here in anguish sever, 
 Live in those homes of air, 
 United and for ever ? 
 
 O ! thus allowed 
 
 Ye mystic crowd 
 How happy, mid our sorrow, 
 
 To know the tear 
 
 That trickles here 
 Your joys will dry to-morrow. 
 
94 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 Now nature craved repose — and Adolph lay 
 
 Upon his couch, religiously resigned ; 
 But still would thoughts of love and Thyrza stray 
 
 Along the musings of his willing mind ; 
 As clouds that beautify a Summer's day 
 
 Changed by the fancy of the wandering wind. 
 But Nature, yielding to the wearying hours, 
 Closed gradually his lids, like evening flowers. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 He dreamed. Oh ! how I love a pleasant dream, 
 Even though with morn it vanisheth away. 
 
 Its sounds and sights delightfully redeem 
 
 The thoughts and cares that bind us down to clay- 
 
 The lost, the loved, the absent meet, or seem 
 To meet ; and thus renew full many a day 
 
 Dead to our waking feelings ; and restore 
 
 Scenes which we deemed had passed for evermore. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Do we not of our dreaming slumber feel, 
 Intensely feel the pleasure or the pain — 
 
 Love, Hope, Ambition, Recklessness or Zeal ? 
 And do we of their impulses retain 
 
 Any impression ? Do our bosoms steal 
 
 No freshness from the scenes where they regain 
 
 The pleasant Past; or, do they suffer less 
 
 Because a dream's illusive ills depress ? 
 
ADOLPH. 95 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 I We started many a morning from my bed, 
 With spirit-gladdening memories of the things 
 
 Which filled, with social fire, my heart and head, 
 And let me back to Youth's inspiring springs ; 
 
 And I have waked, and Recollection spread 
 Above my spirit with a vampyre's w T ings, 
 
 And dared me to shake off the w T eight of woe 
 
 That crushed my feelings. Why should this be so ? 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Adolph was very busy in his sleeping : 
 
 Already had committed an abduction ; 
 And Thyrza, just released from Chancery's keeping, 
 
 Had lain for several hours, without reduction, 
 Pressed to his heart, Joy's tearful .deluge weeping ; 
 
 But even here he met with an obstruction : 
 He dreamed the Chancellor had missed his lady, 
 And loudly thundered at the door already. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 "Thyrza, my Thyrza !" so he now exclaimed, 
 Or thought he did, " even here are we pursued ; 
 
 And supplicated Fortune has disclaimed 
 Her promise, even in this far solitude. 
 
 Must we give up the end at which we aimed, 
 
 And which just now but one more struggle wooed V 9 
 
 " No," she replied, in accents firmly tender, 
 
 " Love may expire — but never should surrender!" 
 
96 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 And still they knocked, so clamorously knocked, 
 
 You 'd have supposed the tenement on fire, 
 Or else by some approaching earthquake rocked ; 
 
 But still they failed t' accomplish their desire : 
 Till, when the spirit of soft dreams was shocked, 
 
 He woke, and turned to Thyrza to inquire — 
 Hush, hark! 'tis real knocking — and, what's better, 
 It is the pauper's with his Thyrza's letter. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 He oped, perused, complied. His nephew went 
 With symbol such as Thyrza had directed. 
 
 But, owing still to Fortune's frowns, th' event 
 Was not successful as they had expected. 
 
 'T was not the nephew's error, he, intent 
 Upon his charge, on that alone reflected : 
 
 And I can add, that many have observed, 
 
 How from that path he never after swerved. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Within a window of her mansion stood 
 Thyrza, attended by her weeping mother; 
 
 Her father, in most melancholy mood, 
 
 Tapped idly with his fingers 'gainst another; 
 
 And, lest a chance of rescue should obtrude, 
 The door was ably guarded by her brother ; 
 
 In short, her kind relations left no art 
 
 Untried to break her young yet withering heart. 
 
ADOLPH. 97 
 
 lxxxvi:. 
 The signal she had seen; but could not follow, 
 
 Her prison-walls were so well fortified ; 
 Her cheek grew pallid, and her eyes grew hollow, 
 
 And even hope within her bosom died. 
 She drooped her forehead, satisfied as Rolla, 
 
 With having tried all means love could have tried. 
 The carriage came, and, rapid as a racket, 
 They saw her safe on board a Leghorn packet. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Adolph was waiting by the western road 
 That leads romancers to Killarney's lakes ; 
 
 Oft thanked kind Fortune that, at length, she showed 
 Some mind to rectify her late mistakes; 
 
 Proposed, beside that lake, a week's abode, 
 And then a journey to the " land o' cakes ;" 
 
 And then, by the most picturesque advance, 
 
 A few soft years in amatory France. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 u And there at least," said he, " I can recline 
 Near the electric fire of Thyrza^s breast — 
 
 Sit in the purple evening by our vine, 
 
 Clipping Love's wings, that he may with us rest; 
 
 And we shall rather gladden than repine 
 At the dark Past; and, mutually caressed, 
 
 Feel blest below, and blessing all above, 
 
 Shall paint the very clouds with hues of love. 
 
98 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XC. 
 " Oh, for that clime of gallantry and fame ! 
 
 Where Love and Glory tune the Poet's lyre ! 
 Where th' one is not afraid to feed his flame 
 
 From the pure fountain of his soul's desire, 
 Nor Glory still t' adore Napoleon's name. 
 
 Oh, may the son be worthier than the sire — 
 Demand the Nation's faith, and trample down 
 That sire's ambition and the Bourbon's crown. 
 
 XCL 
 
 "And will it ever come — that glorious hour! — 
 When th' untombed spirit of Helena's rock 
 
 Shall summon France to wake her slumbering power, 
 And all her treasured thunderbolts unlock; 
 
 Till the affrighted heavens with war-clouds lower, 
 And Europe reels convulsed beneath the shock? 
 
 Will this Napoleon end what that began, 
 
 And mankind's monarchs yield to monarch Man?" 
 
 xcii. 
 The time for Thyrza's advent now had past; 
 
 And he grew pensive when he saw afar 
 His little nephew, riding lone and fast; 
 
 And half accused himself that he did mar 
 The smile of Fate : he knew th' approaching blast, 
 
 For evening came without his evening star. 
 " Oh ! that the world had never Thyrza seen — 
 
 Or, better far, had Adolph never been !" 
 
ADOLPH. 99 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Broken in love, and happiness, and heart — 
 None to deplore and few to sympathise — 
 
 He stood a blank upon existence' chart, 
 Alone to perish or alone to rise ; 
 
 He now had parted all which love could part. 
 A rainbow-hope arose in other skies, 
 
 He flung himself upon the billows' swell, 
 
 And bade the shores, where love was wrecked, farewell ! 
 
 xciv. 
 I saw him in that moment of wild grief: 
 
 There was a madness in his act and air — 
 He laughed at friendship, and disdained relief — 
 
 And his controling planet was Despair. 
 And yet the interval was very brief 
 
 When he was glad, as Summer lark in air — 
 But what availeth it our friends to know 
 That we had lighter hearts ten years ago? 
 
ADOLPH. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 " Haul in the anchor ! spread the sail ! 
 And let us fly before the gale, 
 
 And ride the surge's swell. 
 Ah! louder yet that surge shall roar, 
 Ere we again shall tread thy shore, 
 
 My native land, farewell. 
 
 " Ye Winds ! how swift ye sweep our track, 
 Will ye as swiftly bear us back 
 
 To all we love so well? 
 Alas ! ye laugh my words away, 
 And, hopeless, must the wanderer say, 
 
 Land of my love, farewell !" 
 
102 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 I. 
 
 Thus Adolph sang, as down his native tide 
 The vessel glided to Saint George's sea; 
 
 And, though his features smiled, he could not hide 
 The tear that rilled his eye instinctively. 
 
 And the deep sigh that burst his prisoning pride, 
 Thinking of hours beside his silver Lee j 1 
 
 And then the starting thought, and quick endeavor 
 
 To banish what had passed, perhaps for ever. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Saint Ursula's majestic nunnery now, 
 
 Its splendid wings extending like the Dove ! 
 
 Here dwell the pure of heart, the meek of brow, 
 In the full sunshine of the Godhead's love ; 
 
 Cheering the orphan's wilderness below, 
 
 With the sweet manna sent them from above ; 
 
 And teaching, from Life's chart, the track of years : 
 
 Where Danger lurks, and Safety's light appears. 
 
 in. 
 Live on ! ye meek Samaritans, live on ! 
 
 Unostentatious charity to pour 
 Into the wounds of the afflicted one; 
 
 Healing the sick, and cleansing the impure. 
 And may the tide of your existence run, 
 
 No yoke but your Redeemer's to endure, 
 No tears but those which Charity has given — 
 They never sear, but fall like dews from heaven. 
 
ADOLPH. 103 
 
 IV. 
 And he who lately at your altars stood, 
 
 To whom his heart's humility denied 
 A cis-atlantic mitre — he, the good — 
 
 Your convent's pastor and our city's pride, 
 With Virtue's — Learning's strongest light imbued — 
 
 He who so sinless lived — so sinless died — 
 He is a sacred portion of your fame ; 
 And time unborn shall hallow Lyons' name. 2 
 
 v. 
 
 And now Glanmire's delightful Tempe rose 3 
 
 With amphitheatre of foliage green, 
 Whose boughs, at pleasant intervals, disclose 
 
 Some white-walled cot, sequestered mid the scene, 
 Whose well-trained woodbine, wedded with the rose, 
 
 Displays their infant offspring flowers between; 
 And now, reflecting some more noble mansion, 
 A tribute from the broadening Lee's expansion. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Glanmire ! though ne'er forgotten, ever new, 
 Thou shalt not fade till Life's dark winter lays 
 
 Thy humble minstrel underneath the dew; 
 For thou to him hast been, in far off days, 
 
 His muse and playmate, and my thoughts renew 
 Thy every feature ; and my spirit strays 
 
 From the contested Hudson's mountain shores 
 
 To thine, and there in Fancy's dream adores. 
 
104 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 VII. 
 Now Sunlodge, with its undulating bow 
 
 Of trees full bended round the crescent-strand, 
 That o'er the waves their morning shadows throw, 
 
 And o'er the eve their cooling shades expand. 
 And now more mansions gradually grow 
 
 From out the curving creeks on either hand; 
 And Ferney — but remember a-mi-cheman, 
 I 'm speaking of the Lee, and not the Leman. 
 
 vm. 
 Yes, Ferney ! thou of many scenes, alone, 4 
 
 That rose along the shores of Adolph's track, 
 Did'st string his spirit to that trying tone, 
 
 From which his sorrows could not call him back ; 
 All other feelings from his breast had flown, 
 
 Save those thy presence placed upon the rack ; 
 Not for thy scenes of wave-side solitude, 
 But for thy lord — the honored and the good. 
 
 IX. 
 
 There move around him those who him revere, 
 
 With faces no Lavater could detect; 
 But Adolph stoops not — stooped not to the sneer 
 
 That thus could woo an undisturbed respect; 
 And now — no smile to seek, no frown to fear — 
 
 These humble lines his feelings must reflect: 
 " Ferney !" I say, and oft shall say again, 
 " Thou hold'st the gentlest and the best of men !" 
 
ADOLPH. 105 
 
 X. 
 
 And now the town and fort below " the beach," 
 
 More rapidly retire, more faintly meet 
 The eager gaze, which, now, can scarcely reach 
 
 The nearer isle, so swift is its retreat. 
 And now the headlands mingle, each in each, 
 
 And faintly they rebound the billow's beat. 
 And darkly now the thick'ning mist's unfurled — 
 And skies and waters meeting are the world ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 Now many a scene of beauty has passed by, 
 For if the earth hath beauty, it is here : 
 
 Foliage and flowers of every varying dye, 
 
 And wooded hills, and skies, and waters clear ; 
 
 But what enchantment can arrest the eye, 
 
 When Thought binds up the mind with chain severe ? 
 
 And Adolph started with a new emotion, 
 
 When he perceived he was so near the ocean. 
 
 XII. 
 
 It was the time when Hellas' sorrows showered 
 In lava-currents down her face of gloom — 
 
 When he, whose mind Omnipotence had dowered 
 With gifts that were his glory and his doom, 
 
 From the Olympian hight to which he towered 
 Dazzling the earth, was blasted to the tomb ; 
 
 And o'er the waves, that oft before him bowed, 
 
 Her wailings came deliriously loud. 
 
106 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Now speed thee, Adolph, on thy lone career! 
 
 We to the wizard Byron's bier retire; 
 Where thou hast spoke thy grief, and shed thy tear, 
 
 Above th' unrivalled Monarch of the Lyre ; 
 And though thy puny numbers may not bear 
 
 The critic's candor, nor the hireling's ire; 
 Still shall we watch thy daring pinions soar 
 
 To hights unreached, unseen by thee before. 
 
ADOLPH. 107 
 
 £Je SLament dI Jgellas* 
 
 Come ! Sons of Freedom ! pause we o'er the bier 5 
 
 Of Freedom's wizard bard ! the minstrel chief 
 Who sung of hope to Greece and hushed her fear ! 
 
 Here sleeps he fall'n in his bright summer leaf; 
 
 Mark ye the deep, unostentatious grief 
 Of the funereal city, and the eye 
 
 Of Missilonghi's beauty, on whose brief 
 Glad dreamings of redemption, burst the cry 
 Of men, who wondering asked, and feared to get reply. 
 
 Mark you the rocky hearts of Suli there, 6 
 
 Stern as their wild home's mountain citadel ; 
 Their fiery eyes dilated with dispair 
 
 For him they loved, as he had loved them well. 
 
 And darkly too that cry of terror fell 
 Upon thy heart, Albania's mountaineer; 
 
 For hopes of freedom o'er thee, like a spell, 
 Shone from that Star of Promise ; and the tear 
 His summer presence dried flows full with love and fear. 
 
!08 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Free let it fall! the clouded bosom's rain — 
 
 Tears are the language which the unprepared 
 For earthly griefs express, albeit in vain 
 
 The gushing tribute be — for thou hast shared 
 
 The high and holy aspirations reared 
 By the departed in the millions' breast: 
 
 'T was but a dream that flashed and disappeared : 
 And Hellas, darkness-stricken, bears her best 
 And loftiest of her friends to his eternal rest. 
 
 Who now shall tranquilize the bickering souls 
 
 That boast the spirit of the olden Greek — 
 Who charm the tide of Time as on it rolls, 
 
 And to past inspirations point the weak? 
 
 Who now — while Britain and Bavarian break 
 Thy amulet that should inviolate be — 
 
 That inner gift of God-like sires — shall speak 
 With worshipped voice, and bade, for thine and thee, 
 The yielding hearts unite and strike for liberty? 
 
 Alas ! alas, for us ; yea, e'en for all, 
 
 That we are doomed, Defender of our Right, 
 
 To see thy setting and survive thy fall, 
 
 Ere thou could'st shew the promised land of light, 
 To which thy harp and voice ev'n now invite. 
 
 For, though thy harp and lip are mute and cold, 
 Th' obedient tones that felt thy wizard might, 
 
 And the sad tale of Hellas' glory told, 
 
 Roll on the weeper's ear as first their witchery rolled. 
 
ADOLPH. 109 
 
 Oh! who could breathe that spirit-stirring name — 
 
 My essay's inspiration! — nor entwine 
 Its hallowed memory with the kindred theme 
 
 Of Freedom's children, which his songs divine 
 
 Hath rung through every breast that grieves like mine ? 
 His name is an imperishable part 
 
 Of Hellas' history ! In his decline 
 His latest prayer was for her, and the dart 
 To which his life-veins flowed transfixed her weeping heart. 
 
 Byron's gigantic genius drew its fire 
 
 From out the Alpine lightnings, and its might 
 
 From the far volleying thunders, and its ire 
 Changed to disdain, from his internal blight 
 Of heart, and all of beautiful and bright 
 
 From fountain, flower, lake, star and moonlit glen — 
 He to young Love's luxuriant delight 
 
 Was the adored Appelles of the pen, 
 
 And with a wondrous skill searched the dark minds of men. 
 
 If from the crowd that wonder of our age 
 
 And glory of our country turned away, 
 Treading his own mysterious pilgrimage, 
 
 Spurning the world and shunning its array 
 
 Of gilded folly glittering mid decay; 
 Like to a ruin broadly scattered o'er 
 
 With sunbeams, which, in lighting, but betray 
 Through the green ivy, columns rent and hoar, 
 And serve but to illume its desolation more — 
 
110 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 If from those scenes, where folly, fashion, fame, 
 Eevel as though the soul were wanted there, 
 
 To turn away be but to earn the name 
 Of Misanthrope, O ! quickly let me share 
 
 That enviable title. Few feel here, 
 
 In this cold world, the fellowship of love : 
 
 The friend will mingle with thy wrongs his tear, 
 
 And yet will he a very Judas prove — 
 
 How oft, though young its years, 'gainst such this heart 
 hath strove. 
 
 That blackening wound his noble bosom wrung, 
 Which all men know, but he alone could feel ; 
 
 Deeply the poisoned shaft his spirit stung, 
 
 Opening a scar " which time could never heal." 
 Then rang the tongue of slander, peal on peal, 
 
 Till the responding world belied again ; 
 And perfidy still, struggled to congeal 
 
 His glorious heart. Who thus would live mid men, 
 
 E'en as a tortured beast when spears beset his den. 
 
 Of this enough ! the shuddering heart grows tired, 
 
 Tracing the perils of this billowy life, 
 He who hath into solitude retired 
 
 From the world's wiles, and the volcanic strife 
 
 Of those convulsive crimes with which 't is rife, 
 Hath wisely done. This sublunary vale 
 
 Who hath e'er trodden and escaped the knife 
 Of rancorous Calumny? — where storms prevail 
 Few the returning barks unshattered by the gale. 
 
ADOLPH. Ill 
 
 Monarch of Song ! could'st thou behold the day 
 When Greece, unfettered, could to freedom soar, 
 
 And hear her triumph-cannons' thundering play 
 Along lost Scio's rocky island roar, 
 Telling the martyr-sleepers round her shore, 
 
 That Greece and Greeks at length have reached the goal 
 For which, through fields of flame and floods of gore, 
 
 They fought ; then would thy exultation roll 
 
 The clouds of agony back that gloomed thy parting soul. 
 
 He had his faults ! is weak mortality 
 
 Exempt from imperfections ? was he not 
 A man — and such as thou wilt never see, 
 
 Minerva's land, to soothe and share thy lot? 
 
 Thou 'st friends in spoken prayer and silent thought ; 
 But where is he, self-exiled and alone, 
 
 Who, leaving home and kindred, deeply fraught 
 With vengeance for thy sufferings, hath thrown 
 Those spell-words to the winds to live and die thine own. 
 
 'T is sad, in the broad dearth of Genius high, 
 To lose the Gifted when the gift is given 
 
 To vindicate a land, beneath whose sky 
 
 Dwells every beauty Nature holds from Heaven — 
 A land that, from its independence driven, 
 
 Demands the glories of her ancient fame, 
 
 And for that prize through blood and tears has striven — 
 
 With him expires her friend ; but Byron's name 
 
 Shall be for Freedom's march a quenchless beacon-flame! 
 
112 
 
 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Fair was the breeze and pleasant was the sea, 
 And gladness summered all but Adolph's heart. 
 
 No smile of friend, no word of joy, had he; 
 He saw even Hope's expiring light depart, 
 
 And flung himself to fate dispairingly, 
 
 With every wound still bleeding from the dart. 
 
 " The world was all before " him, and he saw 
 
 Few hopes on which his failing heart could draw. 
 
 xv. 
 
 But yet there was a most consoling pride 
 
 In suffering thus for love's sake, and for keeping 
 
 His lone unshaken vigil by the side 
 
 Of the pure shrines by which his sires were sleeping. 
 
 Yes, yes ! had he his fathers' faith denied, 
 
 And cursed their graves, where centuries are weeping 
 
 O'er the past champions of his nation's pride, 
 
 The world's sad labyrinths had been still untried. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But he, alas ! was not of the true creed ; 
 
 And Thyrza's sire was true law-apostolic, 
 As were his fancied friends ; so they agreed 
 
 To treat him as a heart-burn or a cholic, 
 And so they physic'd him — they did, indeed — 
 
 With doses of such cant — but I 'm less frolic 
 Than Adolph was, or I would lay it on. 
 Suffice it, then, ex gra, to give you one. 
 
ADOLPH. 113 
 
 XVII. 
 This one was six feet high, with little head, 
 
 And little brain, save what he had from others, 
 And little mind, ( its greatness might have fled, 
 
 But I believe it stayed among his mother's;) 
 One kindly feeling might his heart have led, 
 
 But all his worst ones were a band of brothers ; 
 His heart was a dead sea, but more unquiet, 
 And kindly deeds could never blossom nigh it. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Oh ! when will Man the purpose comprehend 
 For which he was created: and recall, 
 
 To light the pilgrim-ways through which we tend, 
 Some of the glory felt before our fall? 
 
 When will we learn of Him, our Saviour friend, 
 Who, unforgiv'n, expired, forgiving all; 
 
 Exclaiming, while his latest breath he drew, 
 
 " Each other love, as I have loved you." 
 
 XIX. 
 
 When will the dire hostilities terminate, 
 
 And feasts of blood that feed the savage War — 
 
 When will the Bigot's prejudice abate, 
 
 That from his brother shuts Salvation's star — 
 
 When will he, impious, cease to legislate 
 
 For Heaven, and the mild laws of Mercy mar, 
 
 Launching on brother man the wrath divine, 
 
 Because he bends before another shrine? 
 
114 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Oh ! if there be a virtue in existence, 
 It is, when every bigot foot would tread 
 
 On hearts, which, in our land's historic distance, 
 For Freedom conquered, for Eeligion bled, 
 
 To seize the lightning-sabre of resistance, 
 To shield the living and appease the dead, 
 
 For they have voices, and they call aloud 
 
 From the mysterious tomb and mouldered shroud* 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Go, seek the Mississippi's wondrous tide, 
 And ask the weeping Creek or Cherokee, 
 
 What price he sets upon his fathers' pride, 
 And hear the answer he will give to thee — 
 
 While listening shades arise on every side — 
 " Our fathers slumber here, and so shall we !" 
 
 And say does Ireland's faith less soul demand 
 
 Than th' Indian gives to his savannah land ? 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Now night came down upon the waters wide, 
 O'er which you could not see a living speck; 
 
 The ship careered along in conscious pride, 
 
 And the mute watch slow paced the lonely deck. 
 
 Adolph all further thought to grief denied, 
 And spoke no further of his fortune's wreck; 
 
 The sigh was hushed, the tear no longer teased him, 
 
 He knew he had done rightly, and it pleased him. 
 
ADOLPH. H5 
 
 XXIII. 
 And now the Queen-Moon bent her silver bow, 
 
 And shot her arrowy light along the wave, 
 And through her azure archipelago 
 
 The island stars a boundless glory gave. 
 The winds that rocked the vessel to and fro, 
 
 Bent to the midnight spirit like a slave ; 
 And the melodious waters glided by, 
 With mirrors turned to the reflected sky. 
 
 xxiv. 
 In heaven there 's beauty when the Sun appears 
 
 Clothed in his royal garment-clouds of gold; 
 On earth there 's beauty when their trembling tears 
 
 The flowers dry up, and all their hues unfold; 
 There 's beauty where, mid helmets, drums and spears, 
 
 Proud England's lion-banner is unrolled, 
 Or when her battle-canvas is unfurled, 
 Whether to punish or redeem a world. 
 
 xxv. 
 
 There's beauty where the soaring bird of Jove, 
 
 Columbia's well-adopted type of power, 
 Spreads his protecting pinions broad above 
 
 The star that dims the tyrants' fiery shower ; 
 There's lasting beauty in the land we love, 
 
 Though its rude rocks refuse to nurse a flower; 
 There 's beauty by the cot's sequestered green, 
 Like virtue in the world, unprized, unseen. 
 
116 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XXVI. 
 There 's beauty where the sounding timbrels swell, 
 
 Where hearts are beating and light feet advancing ; 
 When he who 's cool, if such can be, may tell 
 
 The dazzling thoughts that in the eyes are glancing 
 From each delighted bosom's haunted cell, 
 
 And making every feature more entrancing. 
 But, oh ! the moonlight solitude for me, 
 Upon the vast, deep, strong, uncertain sea ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 How solemn is the midnight world of waves, 
 So strongly calm, so shorelessly sublime, 
 
 With all its hidden wilderness of graves, 
 Unformed, unflowered by the hand of Time, 
 
 Which no fond heart with gushing sorrow laves, 
 And but the deep-mouthed caves' terrific chime 
 
 In mockery mourns ; while fearless monsters tread, 
 
 To feast upon the unforgotten dead. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Oh ! many a heart by many a shore is weeping, 
 For him, its shield, love, promise, life below ; 
 
 And many a night of sleepless vigil keeping, 
 To see what morning's dawning may bestow; 
 
 In vain, fond girl ! that briny lava sweeping 
 
 Consumes your drooping cheeks' vermillion glow ; 
 
 Vain are thy gushing heart and sleepless pillows, 
 
 Your lover 's tombed beneath a thousand billows. 
 
ADOLPH. 117 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Awake ! awake ! why waste the night in sleep ? 
 
 O'er the volcanic waves the Sun is blazing : 
 See how he, king-like, mounts the circling steep, 
 
 And dims the sight from its familiar gazing : 
 And where th' horizon's laughing waters leap 
 
 Is many a ship its wings of white upraising. 
 O ! what a morn ! even as the Christian's creed, 
 Holy and glorious. God is great indeed ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 And these are of His glory, love and power : 
 
 The sea that, chain-like, links the thoughts of friends, 
 
 Even from the parting to the meeting hour, 
 From native home to earth's remotest ends : 
 
 All — all, up from the meadow's humblest flower, 
 
 Or stream, that nameless, through the landscape bends, 
 
 To the big wave that lifts the winged steed ; 
 
 All, all proclaim that God is great indeed ! 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The winds arose, and the entranced waves 
 
 Leaped into life — their dream of night had past: 
 
 The growing storm in the full canvas raves, 
 
 And bends with prisoned strength the yielding mast, 
 
 .Revealing now the ocean's rolling graves, 
 And now expiring o'er the waters vast ; 
 
 Adolph had seen it rise, and rave, and melt, 
 
 And seized and swept his lyre while yet he felt : 
 
118 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 &o tfje <&ttm. 
 
 Likeness of Heaven ! 
 
 Agent of power ! 
 Man is thy victim, 
 
 Shipwrecks thy dower ! 
 Spices and jewels 
 
 From valley and sea, 
 Armies and banners 
 
 Are buried in thee ! 
 
 What are the riches 
 
 Of Mexico's mines, 
 To the wealth that far down 
 
 In thy deep water shines? 
 The navies that cover 
 
 The conquering West — 
 Thou fling'st them to death 
 
 With one heave of thy breast! 
 
 From the high hills that vizor 
 Thy wreck-making shore, 
 
 When the bride of the mariner 
 Shrieks at thy roar — 
 
ADOLPH. 119 
 
 When, like lambs in the tempest, 
 
 Or mews in the blast, 
 O'er thy ridge-broken billows 
 
 The canvas is cast — 
 
 How humbling to one 
 
 With a heart and a soul, 
 To look on thy greatness 
 
 And list to its roll ; 
 To think how that heart 
 
 In cold ashes shall be, 
 While the voice of eternity 
 
 Rises from thee ! 
 
 Yes ! where are the cities 
 
 Of Thebes and of Tyre; 
 Swept from the nations 
 
 Like sparks from the fire ! 
 The glory of Athens, 
 
 The splendor of Rome ? 
 Dissolved — and for ever — 
 
 Like dew in thy foam. 
 
 But thou art almighty — 
 
 Eternal — sublime — 
 Unweakened — unwasted — 
 
 Twin-brother of Time ! 
 
120 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Fleets, tempests, nor nations 
 Thy glory can bow ; 
 
 As the stars first beheld thee, 
 Still chainless art thou ! 
 
 But when thy deep surges 
 
 No longer shall roll, 
 And the firmament's length 
 
 Is drawn back like a scroll, 
 Then — then shall the spirit 
 
 That sighs by thee now, 
 Be more mighty, more lasting, 
 
 More chainless than thou. 
 
ADOLPH. 121 
 
 XXXII. 
 Now Cambria's minstrel-hallowed shores arise, 
 
 And fruitful Devon's opposite appear; 
 And now the Severn's muddy tribute dyes 
 
 The ocean, like the Autumn of the year; 
 And now the sun's reflected light replies 
 
 From Clifton's latticed crescent tier on tier ; 
 Now Bristol's steepled city spreads around, 
 And Adolph's foot first treads the Saxon's ground. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Strange voices now arrest his startled ear; 
 
 Strange faces meet his melancholy eye ; 
 Fresh crowds of enterprize, in full career, 
 
 The agents of the earth — are sweeping by. 
 Oh ! how unlike the shores, now doubly dear, 
 
 Where Commerce seldom wooes the breezy sky; 
 Where from the Poor the tyrant's tyrant draws 
 The sweat of blood, and mocks the slumbering laws. 
 
 xxxiv. 
 What were the feelings which each changing scene 
 
 Awoke in Adolph's bosom, he can tell 
 Who treads the land, that o'er his fields of green 
 
 For ages rolled the carnage-billows' swell, 
 And meets the titled Saxon, who has been 
 
 So titled as he plundered Ireland well; 
 The star upon whose breast reflects its light 
 From the vast blaze where sank his nation's right. 
 
122 „ SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 'T were virtue to forget — or to forgive 
 
 A private insult or a private wrong. 
 But, could I, like the wandering Hebrew, live, 
 
 My school as various and my life as long, 
 Not even one drop of Lethe would I give, 
 
 To quench my hate of tyrants — deep and strong. 
 Ills private wound but slightly, but the mind 
 That wrongs even one small nation, wrongs mankind. 
 
 xxxvi. 
 Now Bath, the city of the proud, appears, 
 
 Where princes, peers, and all such worthless things, 
 Grow old in folly to grow young in years, 
 
 Upon " the pump room's " renovating springs. 
 I marvel how so well the nation wears, 
 
 While to her heart such brood of reptiles clings. 
 There 's not a fountain in that place but bears 
 A portion of my plundered country's tears. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The Honorable and Right Eeverend the Lord 7 
 Bishop of thirty thousand pounds per year, 
 
 Less sanctioned by the gospel than the sword, 
 Here runs his evangelical career : 
 
 Teaches by practice how the w r orld 's adored, 
 Teaches by proxy how we ought to bear 
 
 The thousand ills, by which for Heaven we're nursed — 
 
 He of that thousand being by far the worst. 
 
ADOLPH. 123 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 How many others may the muse recount, 
 Who follow in that mitred-sinner's way ? 
 
 But it disgusts to calculate th' amount 
 Thus gambled in their hypocritic play. 
 
 Yet are there, in the Apostolic fount, 
 
 Who bathe the wounded spirit night and day, 
 
 Men whose bright virtue hides the others' stains 
 
 While free from state corruption it remains. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Yet " one would I select from that proud throng," 
 
 Th' arch-mitred hero of antithesis ! 
 Partly because he did my Church some wrong, 
 
 And partly that I did some wrong to his, 
 When I supposed he would remain too strong 
 
 To be allured to bigotry's abyss ; 
 Or that he 'd not deem liberty the lighter, 
 Even though his thoughts were burdened by a mitre. 
 
 XL. 
 
 His little Grace conceived 't was necessary 
 
 To give the Church the spur — it halted so — 
 
 And I must here acknowledge he was very 
 Active in making his disciples go. 
 
 So he grew antithetically merry, 
 
 Let fly, but fell even while he gave the blow. 
 
 And thus the Established (?) Church obtained a lift, 
 
 Whose faith was lazy while its dean was Swift. 
 
124 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XLI. 
 Oh ! for the power of gold — the almighty power 
 
 That maketh great things small and small things great ! 
 And, when the tempest-clouds around you lower, 
 
 Will lift you up to a securer seat, 
 Above their strength ; where the defeated shower 
 
 Of ills may fall innocuous at your feet. 
 x4.nd even the Church adores the calf of gold 
 When consciences or countries can be sold. 
 
 XLIL 
 
 On whirl the rapid wheels, but can we pass 
 Sweet Sloperton without one grateful thought 
 
 For him whose friendship taught me first to weave 
 The song, that since victoriously has fough, 
 
 With tyrant Fate — who deigned to receive 
 And smile upon the humble gift I brought 
 
 To show the feelings of my thankful mind, 
 
 As trifles tell the current of the wind ? 
 
 XLIIl. 
 
 Bard of the World ! idol of our own land ! 
 
 Which owes to thee more than to Wellington ; 
 Who did'st lift up to heaven thy minstrel hand, 
 
 And scattered half the clouds that dimmed her sun — 
 Thou, who, where banded thousands failed to stand, 
 
 And lost the enterprize ere yet begun, 
 Kedeemed'st from Tara's halls the harp of songs, 
 And won the world to weep above her wrongs — 
 
ADOLPH. 125 
 
 XLIV. 
 If the long dimmed and persecuted name 
 
 Of Erin now less timidly appears, 
 And, like her inextinguishable flame, 
 
 Burns not less brightly for her stormy years, 
 Thou 'st raised her glory, may'st thou share her fame ; 
 
 And when her mountain-record Ireland rears, 
 The name that catches last the Sun's decline, 
 And hails his rising — may that name be thine ! 
 
 XLV. 
 
 And fain would I, who 've felt thy kind regard, 
 Breathe one warm wish in my deep soul's delight ; 
 
 I cannot boast the genius of a bard, 
 
 And know no learned figures to indite ; 
 
 But from a heart as true as mountain sward, 
 Nature's unartful produce — wrong or right — 
 
 From that rough heart receive this patriot prayer: 
 
 That all which Heaven can bless with thou may'st share. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Now Windsor ! proudest home of England's kings, 
 
 From whose glad forest in remoter day 
 The true-eyed falcon spread his faithful wings, 
 
 Cleaving the air on its instructed way : 
 Here, warm with Love's divine imaginings, 
 
 Minstrels, and knights, and lords, and ladies gay, 
 Brought to each bower within that paradise 
 Sweet songs, bright costumes, and bewildering eyes, 
 
126 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 XLVII. 
 Oh ! for the days of England's merry mood, 
 
 When the high-mettled chase went sweeping by ; 
 And hound and horn awoke the solitude 
 
 That loved to echo to their mingled cry ; 
 When many a forest cheered for Robin Hood; 
 
 When Ashby saw her yeomen's arrows fly ; 
 When lute and song the hidden heart revealed, 
 And Woman's eyes led monarchs to the field. 
 
 XLVIIl. 
 
 Oh ! for the days of England's bright romance, 
 When valor strove and woman was the prize ! 
 
 When list and pennon, steed and casque, and lance, 
 And 'scutcheoned shield, that won the mirrored skies ; 
 
 And trumpet's call, and wild plume's onward glance, 
 Summoned the nation's glory to arise ; 
 
 And th' warrior heart's romantic hope of winning 
 
 Beauty whose smile would set a seraph sinning. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Why did those days of Chivalry go by ? 
 
 Why is the tournay's pride forsaken now ? 
 Why is sweet Woman won with glance and sigh, 
 
 Without the wreath that binds the conqueror's brow ? 
 Why did dull Commerce, with her miser eye, 
 
 O'er Knighthood's play-ground drive her burning plough ? 
 Why gone the days no fiction could enhance, 
 For History's page was written by Romance ? 
 
ADOLPH. 127 
 
 L. 
 
 All things are changed : but few more changed than thee, 
 Imperial Windsor ! Now thou can'st but tell 
 
 To the three isles of burdened beggary, 
 If Sardanapalus eat his victuals well, 
 
 How he and his unwieldy Myrrha flee, 
 By the Virginia waters' there to dwell 
 
 A few ambiguous moments, face to face, 
 
 Like Dido and iEneas in the chase. 
 
 LL 
 
 Your monarchs know of life but its delusions — ■ 
 They know of dissolution but its terrors — 
 
 They rob the poor man for their boards' profusions — 
 They laugh at Heaven and legalize their errors — 
 
 They strangle Conscience for its vile intrusions — 
 They gild their vices for Eeflection's mirrors — 
 
 They banish Virtue to Siberian distance, 
 
 And trample down the objects of existence. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Existence ! 't is a dream of darkness, filled 
 With visions and events, that come and go, 
 
 Like moment clouds, to shadow or to gild 
 The phases of our fortune here below. 
 
 Why do we then presumptuously build 
 Babels illumed by Passion's fiery glow ? 
 
 Why are our day dreams ever on the crescent ; 
 
 Yet, like our night dreams, vain and evanescent ? 
 
128 
 
 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 LIII. 
 Or does no path through yon horizon lead, 
 
 Which bounds our mortal vision, to some sphere 
 Of yet uncurtained happiness, where, freed 
 
 From the gross follies that enchain us here, 
 Kegenerated Man shall claim his meed, 
 
 And walk through Heaven the Seraphim's compeer ? 
 If such there be, oh ! let me not repine 
 While human hope presumes that pathway mine. 
 
 LIV. 
 But if the hope, the prayer, the anchor-creed 
 
 Of Christian law be meteors of the earth, 
 Then may the humble, poor and virtuous bleed, 
 
 And curse the destiny that gave them birth : 
 Curse the blind chance that flung them as a weed 
 
 Upon the surges' sweep — the surges' mirth. 
 But, hush ! the very thought — for God is here ! 
 I hear His love breathed through the very air. 
 
 LV. 
 
 I see Him in the forest as it grows — 
 I see Him in the mountain as it stands — 
 
 I see Him in the beauty of the rose — 
 I see Him in the produce of the lands — 
 
 I see Him in the sun that o'er me glows — 
 I see Him in the starlight's spirit bands — 
 
 I see Him in the awful judgment hour, 
 
 Coming with pomp, and majesty, and power ; 
 
ADOLPH. 129 
 
 LVI. 
 I see, I feel, I fear and I adore. 
 
 Taint not, thou Infidel, my glorious trust ! 
 If, as thou teachest, we shall never soar 
 
 Above the prison of our kindred dust — 
 Even thus existence I enjoy the more 
 
 For promised immortality, and must, 
 While the Kedeemer's hope remains with me, 
 Worth all the light of earth's philosophy. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Star of my life, eternal Hope ! appear, 
 Kindle thy radiance on my upward brow, 
 
 For I have suffered ! shine still calmly clear, 
 For I have loved thee ! dwell around me now 
 
 For evil things beset me ! while I steer 
 My vessel frail, still be its beacon, thou ! 
 
 Even wert thou frail as I, yet still I know 
 
 My peace too well to think thou could'st be so. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Hush ! hark ! whence those unwonted notes of woe ? 
 
 In England's eye why the o'erflooding swell, 
 The hurried bosom's agonizing throe, 
 
 And the deep sorrows of the minute bell ? 
 Where hath " the insatiate archer " bent his bow ? 
 
 Against some chief of Albion's citadel ? 
 Does sable mockery mourn a monarch's fall — 
 Or is the woe of one the woe of all ? 
 
130 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Know ye, when monarchs die the coffined clay- 
 Is borne with royal pomp and long parade 
 
 To its eternal chamber of decay ; 
 
 And when the prayer, by pensioned prelates prayed 
 
 O'er th' embalmed nothingness, hath died away 
 By the same prelates monarchy is laid 
 
 Upon another monarch's care-crowned head — 
 
 But who transfers the crown of Genius dead ? 
 
 LX. 
 
 Who can rebuild the tenement of soul — 
 Fill the chaotic senate with its light — 
 
 Win the unwilling mind to its control, 
 And bear it on in its celestial flight — 
 
 Up — mounting upwards — far beyond the goal 
 Star-sentineled from less spiritual sight — 
 
 Who through the applauding lists like him advance ; 
 
 Law in a word, and wisdom in a glance ? 
 
ADOLPH. 131 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF 
 
 W&z Jjgort* CKeorge iSratmhts* 
 
 Alas ! that the Heav'n-gifted spirit hath fled, 
 
 The friend of the free, and the shield of the slave, 
 
 And, alas ! that the foot of a rival should tread, 
 In the triumph of infamy, over his grave. 
 
 Alas ! that a tyrant should ever arise, 
 
 In that place whence the thunders of Freedom were 
 hurled, 
 By as lofty a soul as e'er sprang from the skies, 
 
 The boast of his land, and the pride of the world. 
 
 But scarce grew the coldness of death through his clay, 
 When the fiend of Ascendency shouted aloud, 
 
 That the mighty one melted like snow in the spray, 
 And that Freedom was fated to share of his shroud. 
 
 And will ye, who have listened with pleasure and pride, 
 When the silver-tongued God of the senate arose, 
 
 Will ye tamely look on while his vassals deride, 
 And grudge e'en his ashes their dreary repose ? 
 
132 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Forbid it, thou God ! of whose essence his mind 
 
 Held such portion as doth the pale moon of the sun ; 
 
 Forbid it, all ye who are friends of mankind, 
 
 And love Liberty's champions, for Canning was one ! 
 
 Forbid it, Columbia ! for whom thousands fell, 
 And the wail of the vassal ascended for years ; 
 
 Yes ! well may the snows that eternally dwell 
 
 On your mountains, melt down into torrents of tears. 
 
 For his breath was the first that proclaimed thee un- 
 chained, 
 And fanned thy bright flag when its folds were unfurled; 
 With that breath he dispelled all the clouds that remained, 
 And thou shon'st, as he spoke, the first star of the 
 world. 
 
 Forbid it, bright land of the sword and the song ! 
 
 On thy mountains the standard of Freedom is set, 
 Thy hands are unfettered — thy glory is strong; 
 
 But who gave thee those blessings thou can'st not forget. 
 
 Thou can'st not forget that when nations looked on — 
 Yea ! nations that prayed to the God of thy prayer — 
 
 And beheld all thy glory and liberty gone, 
 
 Who soothed thy sorrow and scattered thy tear. 
 
ADOLPH. 133 
 
 Forbid it, green land, of the harp and the chain, 
 Sad land of long centuries' struggles, forbid ! 
 
 For though in thy battle his strength was in vain, 
 Yet all could be done by a mortal he did. 
 
 The light of his genius so brightened around thee, 
 The strength of his spirit so mingled with thine, 
 
 That where is the tyrant could bind as he bound thee, 
 Or the brand of dissension fling back on thy shrine ? 
 
 True, without e'en his effort thy cause must succeed, 
 For its pace is the giant's impetuous stride ; 
 
 Yet was 't not thy pride, in the day of thy need, 
 That he stood like a host 'gainst a host by thy side 
 
 Columbia, Greece, Erin, ye senator-souls ! 
 
 Whose proudest reward is your People's applause; 
 Say, will ye not check the vile wrath as it rolls, 
 
 From lips never hallowed by Liberty's cause ? 
 
 Yes! shield his great memory — - though stainless it is, 
 For he who subdued them, nor heeds them, nor hears : 
 
 Let the tear of affection for ever be his, 
 And the curses of Freedom eternally theirs. 
 
134 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Now in this vast and venerable pile, 
 
 Still more immortalized by Canning's clay, 
 
 Filled with mute grief to its remotest aisle, 
 The champion of the universe they lay. 
 
 Here pause I too, partitioned for awhile 
 
 From the loud world — self-curtained from the day- 
 
 To muse mid shadowy centuries, whose events 
 
 Crowd on my mind, mysterious and intense. 
 
 XLTI. 
 
 Fit mausoleum for the living dead ! 
 
 Victor of Time and Man, more mighty still 
 In his brief reign ! how marvellously dread 
 
 The pile whose form obeyed a mortal's will. 
 The frowning walls reproach his very tread, 
 
 And point to tombs which Earth is proud to fill ; 
 .Religion's martyrs and Ambition's slaves, 
 Sleeping amid thy populace of graves. 
 
 XLIIL 
 
 Parent of Contemplation ! from thy breast 
 Adolph may drink the philosophic tide : 
 
 And learn mid tombs where mankind's greatest rest 
 In pulseless dust, that once was deified ; 
 
 How falls the plume from Glory's dazzling crest, 
 The monarch's sceptre and the statesman's pride : 
 
 And thou wilt fit him for the scenes that lie 
 
 Before his path beneath Columbia's sky. 
 
ADOLPH. 135 
 
 XLIV. 
 Columbia! Adolph means to turn to thee, 
 
 The Tyrant's terror and the Freeman's boast! 
 To wake his lyre to themes of Liberty 
 
 Along thy self-emancipated coast. 
 Fling him not from thee, but in kindness be 
 
 What climes should be to those who love them most. 
 To thee shall Adolph wake his future lyre ! 
 Dim not his hope, nor damp the stranger's fire. 
 
NOTES. 
 
NOTES TO ADOLPH. 
 
 CANTO FIRST. 
 
 Note 1. 
 
 " At the Divan we've often sate together ;" 
 The Divan is a place of fashionable resort in the vicinity of the two leading 
 London theatres ; and derives its appellation from the orientalism of its furniture 
 and fare. 
 
 Note 2. 
 
 "To the three Isles' half-pensioned Parliament 7 ' 
 Ireland, England and Scotland. 
 
 CANTO SECOND. 
 
 NOTE 1. 
 
 " Thinking of hours beside his silver LeeP 
 The beautiful scenery of the river Lee has won the admiration of every traveller. 
 Charles Constantine Pise, D. D., in his " Hours of Travel," says, " I do not exagger- 
 ate, when I style the scenery on this river the beau ideal of the beautiful and the 
 picturesque. * * * No where could fields be seen more intensely green, harvests, 
 no where so golden in hue, and so luscious in nature. No where villas more elegant, 
 or more romantically situated. No where a clearer stream, more gently meandering 
 through a fairy country." 
 
 The Lee takes its rise in G-ougane Barra, a wild mountainous district in the 
 barony of Carberry, County of Cork. The following extract from a fine poem, writ- 
 ten by the late Jeremiah James Callanan, author of the lines entitled u Mary Mag- 
 
140 NOTES. 
 
 dalen," which have deservedly attained a wide publicity through the newspaper 
 press, may not be unacceptable to the reader as descriptive of the place : 
 " There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra, 
 Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow ; 
 In deep vallied Desmond, a thousand wild fountains 
 Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains : 
 There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow 
 Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow, 
 As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorning, 
 It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning ; 
 And its zone of dark hills, oh ! to see them all brightning, 
 When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning, 
 And the waters rush down, mid the thunder's deep rattle, 
 Like clans from the hills at the voice of the battle ; 
 And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming, 
 And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming." 
 
 Note 2. 
 " And time unborn shall hallow Lyons' name. 11 
 
 The late Rev. D. Lyons, Chaplain to the Ursuline Convent, near the city of 
 Cork. 
 
 NOTE 3. 
 
 a And now Glanmire's delightful Tempe rose." 
 The Vale of Glanmire is near. We are entering it. On one side, a well-made 
 road extends on the very margin of the lake ; on the other, a gently sloping hill 
 sweeps down to the water's edge, covered with wood. Perhaps there is no more 
 lovely scenery in any part of this beautiful country, — not even excepting the 
 { sweet vale of Ovoca,' — than this on which my eye is now delighting itself. * * * 
 
 Hours of Travel. 
 
 note 4. 
 
 " Yes, Ferney ! thou, of many scenes alone." 
 Ferney is situated on the river Lee, and is the seat of William Crawford, Junior, 
 Esq., a gentleman whose patriotism has been no less exercised to establish his coun- 
 try's welfare than his benevolence to administer to that of his fellow-citizens. 
 
NOTES. 141 
 
 NOTB 5. 
 
 " Come! Sons of Freedom ! pause we o'er the bier 
 
 Of 'Freedom' 's wizard bard : the minstrel chief." 
 
 In the midst of his (Lord Byron's) own brigade, of the troops of the government, 
 and of the whole population, on the shoulders of the officers of his corps, relieved 
 occasionally by other Greeks, the most precious portion of his honored remains was 
 carried to the church, where lie the bodies of Marco Bozzaris and of General 
 Normann. There we laid them down ; the coffin was a rude, ill-constructed chest 
 of wood ; a black mantle served for a pall, and over it we placed a helmet and a 
 sword, and a crown of laurel. But no funeral pomp could have left the impression, 
 nor spoken the feelings of this simple ceremony.— Parry's last days of Byron. 
 
 note 6. 
 "Mark you the rocky heart of Suh there." 
 
 Lord Byron had taken a small corps of Suliotes into his own pay, and kept them 
 about him as a body guard. — Ibid. 
 
 Note 7. 
 B The Honorable and Right Reverend the Lord." 
 
 Lest, notwithstanding the well-known security of Religion in this country, from 
 state alliance and corruption, the author may be misunderstood, it is deemed ne- 
 cessary to say, that the application of this and the four successive stanzas is con- 
 fined to what, in Great Britain, is unreasonably and ridiculously termed " The Es- 
 tablished Church." 
 
 Note 8. 
 
 " On whirl the rapid wheels, but can we pass 
 Sweet Sloperton without one grateful thought." 
 
 Sloperton is the residence of Thomas Moore, Esq., author of Lalla Rookh, The 
 Irish Melodies, &c, and is situated near Devizes, Wiltshire, England. Mr. Shea's 
 poem of Rudekki, published in London in 1826, was dedicated, by permission, to Mr. 
 Moore. 
 
142 NOTES. 
 
 Note 9. 
 
 u To thee shall Adolph wake his future lyre ! 
 Dim not his hope nor damp the stranger's fire? 1 
 
 It was the author's intention to extend the poem through several more cantos 
 to be devoted to the various brilliant events which have occurred in this country 
 during the last seventy years, and which, he thought, are too exclusively left in the 
 keeping of history. 
 
TIME'S MISSION. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
TIME'S MISSION. 
 
 A FBAG-MENT. 
 
 Long years, but brief in retrospect, have passed, 
 Bearing full many a spirit-crushing care, 
 
 Ocean ! since I beheld thy glory last, 
 
 And saw thy brow encrowned with golden haze, 
 When the high sun looked down into thy ways 
 
 Of deep — deep wonder and o'erpowering awe. 
 Thy life is measured not by change or days : 
 
 Thou art immortal as when Heaven first saw 
 
 Thy mighty arms unrol its delegated law. 
 
 Thou everlasting bond 'twixt men and lands, 
 
 Who bear'st abroad the wealth of brightest minds, 
 How my rejuvenescent soul expands 
 
 On thy orchestral harmony of winds. 
 
 With thee once more the pensive spirit finds 
 Gladness, and sacredness, and peace, and power 
 
 To bind each impulse as strong armor binds ! 
 
 This is indeed enjoyment, and the hour, 
 
 Least hoped, most sighed for comes, a most enriching 
 
 dower. 
 
 13 
 
146 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 I now the thorny travel of the mind 
 
 Back to its bosom centre can recall ; 
 But can I hope the feelings there to find 
 
 Bright as the snow-flake ere to earth it fall ? 
 
 Alas ! the memory of the past is gall ; 
 And pride, ambition, glory, love and fame 
 
 Are to the heart as tinsel to the pall — 
 I Ve seen them seldom gild but sin and shame, 
 Found earth but care, and Hope a nothingness of name. 
 
 But, though Time cannot Pleasure's hours restore, 
 
 It hath specifics for the Mind's disease : 
 In learning Wisdom's too neglected lore, 
 
 Feeling how Virtue's charms alone can please, 
 
 And life pursuing as Religion sees ; 
 To paint Futurity with gospel hand, 
 
 The only anchor-truth in time to seize, 
 To look above where shines the spirit-land, 
 And intercourse assert with Heaven's angelic band. 
 
 This is tranquillity of Heaven, bestowed 
 
 On noblest objects gladdening soul and heart ; 
 
 Making of them a paradise abode, 
 
 Beyond the reach of the malignant dart, 
 The proud one's frown or Folly's syren art. 
 
 Earth hath no tomb for pleasures such as these — 
 Time can to them but brighter charms impart ; 
 
 And death will come as gently as the breeze 
 
 That moveth, with a breath, the leaves from Autumn trees. 
 
TIME'S MISSION. 147 
 
 Tourists some minds, in marble exhumate 
 
 From long sepultured centuries, adore ; 
 And o'er some ruin's hieroglyphic date 
 
 Heaps exstacies of antiquarian lore, 
 
 The more inspired when mystified the more ; 
 Climbing conjectures on conjectures piled; 
 
 While ocean shakes the all-unstudied shore. 
 Can such things last than fancy, far more wild, 
 While Truth rides every surge, unveiled and undefiled. 
 
 •V, ^i. Jji. .Af, .V, .At. .AA. «\A, 
 
 Oh ! that the buried science of Chaldee 
 
 Eesuscitate became, that I might view 
 Yon planetary lights of destiny 
 
 With vision telescopic, and pursue, 
 
 Spirit rejuvenescent, action true, 
 The great mysterious study ! What we are, 
 
 Or have been, or shall be, who knows or knew ? 
 We walk in the soul's blindness, while afar 
 Our fates perchance are writ in each particular star. 
 
 But restless grows the spirit with our years ; 
 
 The more do they advance, it yearns the more ; 
 Impatient its mortality it wears, 
 
 And strives, with giant struggle, to explore 
 
 Some clime beyond that firmamental shore, 
 Whose isles are planets set in seas of space, 
 
 And ever craves some Godhead to restore 
 The erring wanderer to its native place 
 Of love, and light, and joy, and holiness, and grace. 
 
148 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 I marvel if the Chaldean did behold 
 
 Those stars as caravanserais of air, 
 Where pilgrim-souls their weary pinions fold, 
 
 To rest them in their starry soaring there ; 
 
 Or find — forgot each earthly grief or care — 
 Their long-lost heaven in some one radiant sphere ; 
 
 Or if, as in more modern times is taught, 
 The spirit, freed from dust and darkness here, 
 Will brightly run through each some limited career. 
 
 Those starry metaphysics have a mood 
 
 Of most abortive search : the pausing mind 
 Gasps in bewilderment, nor can intrude, 
 
 In these unastrologic days, behind 
 
 The awful veil to Fate alone assigned. 
 We nothing know beyond the truth that we 
 
 Are to life's waves what dust is to the wind, 
 An onward plaything, still their sport to be ; 
 A form of many parts, an atomed unity. 
 
 All, all around, is suitable to this ! 
 
 From the red sun that rushes down at eve 
 Into the ocean's foaming precipice, 
 
 And moons, that on the stream bright net-work weave, 
 
 To flowers which, in the fateful Autumn, leave 
 Their life-holds in the forest or the field, 
 
 Or morns and nights which measuredly receive 
 Existences alternate — hourly yield 
 Their perishing to our eyes — a homily unsealed. 
 
TIME'S MISSION. 149 
 
 Nothing of life abideth ! all is change ! 
 
 And whence we came, and whither we shall go, 
 He knoweth who hath sent ; nor deem it strange, 
 
 If whence and whitherward the ocean's flow, 
 
 Ages have known not, nor shall ever know, 
 For yonder stars are not familiar pages. 
 
 Enough, if we can purify the wo, 
 Which is the inheritance of erring ages, 
 By God's redeeming grace, and lore of saints and sages. 
 
 Faith ! firm-set anchor of the Christian's soul ! 
 
 By thee I hold, as did the Prophet band, 
 Waiting till God's own mercy should unrol 
 
 The banner of Salvation to the land ; 
 
 When, like calm waves expiring on the strand, 
 Ages succeeded ages and expired ; 
 
 Happy that thou, so gloriously bland, 
 Strengthened the soul with hope of " the Desired ;" 
 And breathed new joy around, and prophecy inspired. 
 
 Then better lost is the Chaldean's lore, 
 
 And better veiled is the Chaldean's light, 
 Nor e'er could they successfully restore 
 
 What it would take from us of Hope's delight ; 
 
 For Hope, with brow crowned with celestial light, 
 Like sunrise to the worshipping Parsee, 
 
 Still sheds its glory on the mortal's sight. 
 Then let that faith my strength and solace be, 
 To guide my path aright, and ope Eternity. 
 
150 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Spirit of Song ! that, in the elder time, 
 
 Mysterious dwelling far beyond the eye 
 Of vision unethereal, throned sublime, 
 
 Held'st near the golden chambers of the sky, 
 
 O'er Pindus ample or Olympus high, 
 Not widely were thy inspirations then 
 
 Bequeathed ; for then thou did'st the gift deny 
 Of sacred song, save to the wondrous men — 
 The eremites of Soul, by thoughtful grove and glen. 
 
 Then was thy kindling influence confined 
 
 Within the precincts of the classic East : 
 But in that olden empire of the Mind, 
 
 She spreads no longer now th' exclusive feast. 
 
 In charmed Castaly, her song has ceased : 
 The fruitage offerings of the Delphic bowers 
 
 Are consecrated not, by Delphos' priest, 
 Now to the bard of Thebes : from Athens' tow T ers, 
 No shout of Freedom now rings to the circling hours ! 
 
 But where the burning Occident unfolds 
 
 Her mountains high and inland oceans vast, 
 Where Liberty her chosen realm beholds, 
 
 And hears her songs arise on every blast, 
 
 As by Eurotas sung in ages past ; 
 Spirit of Song! into that kindred clime — 
 
 For, thou with Liberty deep kindred hast — 
 Did'st thou advance to meet the march of Time 
 And inspiration breathe, exaltingly sublime. 
 
TIME'S MISSION. 151 
 
 To geographic sections unconfmed, 
 
 The continental West assumed thy reign : 
 
 Man is thy child, thy universe the Mind ; 
 Thy loftiest hights the lowliest may attain, 
 For state nor humblest grade dost thou disdain. 
 
 The land awoke to song beneath thy wings, 
 And Liberty, to her ascendant strain, 
 
 Woke, through the forests deep, her joyous strings, 
 
 With such a power as shook the thrones of Europe's kings. 
 
 Harp of the frigid North ! around whose hills 
 
 Th' ungenial storms hold turbulent career ; 
 Whose cloud-encumbered firmament distils 
 
 But congelations through the frozen air ; 
 
 Whose cheerless latitudes, through half the year, 
 Share not the sun's warm influence ; the wings 
 
 Of cheerful Genius seek thy favored sphere ; 
 There Freedom's spirit-stirring chorus rings, 
 Or Love's harmonious song pours from the raptured strings. 
 
 Yet from the South, whose glowing atmosphere 
 
 Is one broad world of inspirations true, 
 Seldom the voice of kindling Song we hear ; 
 
 Though Learning there with rapid vigor grew, 
 
 And gifted minds are neither faint nor few, 
 Nor unesteemed the intellectual dower. 
 
 And who, of Empires old or Nations new, 
 Hath loftier honors, gathered in the hour 
 When Mind became a law, and Principle a power ? 
 
152 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Is there no minstrel in the ardent South — 
 
 Champions of Song's ennobling chivalry ? 
 No inspirations breathed from Beauty's mouth ? — 
 
 No land of streamlet, mountain, bower or tree? 
 
 No forests where the guardian Dryads be 
 
 Nor, shrined in architecture of green boughs, 
 
 Some grove for Nature's moonlight jubilee? — 
 No throbbing love of Fame the bard to rouse ? — 
 Nor — life of the world's wide heart — young Love's 
 remembered vows ? 
 
 Or hath Ambition, of its eagle flight, 
 
 Forgetful grown, or sated, ceased to soar ? — 
 
 Ambition of the pinions plumed with light, 
 E'en though, like those w r hich Icarus of yore, 
 .Rapt in the daring future, sun-ward bore, 
 
 They, in their mid-heaven reach of splendor fail. 
 The eagle trains his offspring to explore 
 
 The Day-God's realm nor fear the giant Gale : 
 
 Man's nature is not less! Awake — ascend — prevail! 
 
 Man hath an innate energy of soul — 
 
 Essence of the Immortal — free — unbound — 
 
 That claims the range of Nature's wondrous whole, 
 Far beyond our Creation's narrow round — 
 Worlds of ineffable bliss by fear unfound, 
 
 And holds communion with invisible powers. 
 
 Those Homer, Milton, Shakspeare, Dante crowned 
 
 With knowledge won, trod to their inmost towers — 
 
 Yet were their hearts but dust — mere dust. What less are ours ? 
 
TIME'S MISSION. 153 
 
 Sons of the South ! you of the lofty soul ! 
 
 To you, and to your sunny land, belong 
 High claims to live on the immortal roll 
 
 Of Fame, and share the heraldry of Song. 
 
 Stand forth ; assert them, and rejoice among 
 The noblest of the Empire of the Mind. 
 
 The chain of Apathy, however strong, 
 The spirit of Ambition can unbind ; 
 Wake the gigantic thought and ' Fame's proud temple find. ' 
 
 »V, .AA. «V. M, J/, ^. ^r, .A/. 
 
 O ! that some star would rise in Heaven's blue deep, 
 
 To light my pathway to immortal fame : 
 Away from nothingness : that, when I sleep, 
 
 The world should hear the trumpet of my name ; 
 
 Let hearts of worthless latitudes exclaim 
 Against ambition, and return to dust ; 
 
 To-day is their remotest point of aim, 
 To-morrow brings monotonous disgust, 
 And slothful life lies down engendering rust on rust. 
 
 -Sl? - ' 4fe 4tt «m> ". ■ j* ' - -at- m, " jt. 
 
 -??• -ff' w -Tr ^ *7?- "fi- vi- 
 
 Call you this pleasure — Folly's desert maze — 
 
 The feast, the song, the laughter and the dance-, 
 Bright halls where Woman hears lascivious praise, 
 
 Mid the exciting pageants of Romance ? 
 
 There was a time when I could read a glance 
 With all the truth of the Volusian bard, 
 
 And all the spirit of chivalric France, 
 When Reason's counsel was in poor regard 
 As with intrusive search young Fancy's flight it marred. 
 
154 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Not mid illusions dangerous as fair — 
 
 Spells from the fringed curtains of the eye — 
 Luxuriant tresses waving on the air — 
 
 Lips breathing from the heart its anxious sigh — 
 
 The fairy-footed link-dance flying by, 
 In attitudes of fascinating grace, 
 
 As each had just descended from the sky ; 
 Angels alike in symmetry and face — 
 Not there the soul now finds its native dwelling place. 
 
 But the strong Spirit of deep Thought, which seems 
 
 An iron despot of the heart to thee — 
 A dark destroyer of those passionate dreams 
 
 That fire the heart to frenzied ecstacy — 
 
 Is a most gentle monitor to me : 
 And, could I tread Life's fairy-land again, 
 
 Should, through its scenes, my sole companion be, 
 That I may read into the souls of men, 
 And all I yet might be provide for wisely then. 
 
 What ! plunge in pastimes now, when, chaste and bright, 
 The mid-heaven moon is up and Night full-grown, 
 
 The lake reposing in unclouded light, 
 
 Beauty supreme within the horizon's zone, 
 
 And Earth as though it were indeed God's own ! 
 
 Here, not with outward vision, I survey 
 Nature in calm magnificence, alone, 
 
 But with an inner sight, whose soaring ray 
 
 Sweeps the harmonious whole up to the starry way. 
 
TIME'S MISSION. 155 
 
 There with a soul, from earthly thought unbound, 
 
 I walk amid the beauty of the spheres, 
 And, hark ! a rapture of melodious sound 
 
 From spirit-harps bursts from the far-off Years ! 
 
 The power of God in holiness appears : 
 And Truth and Wisdom of creative plan — 
 
 And Love that wept in Calvary's crimson tears — 
 And Myst'ry, which, alas ! since time began, 
 Error alone hath hid, are here revealed to Man. 
 
 That thoughtful Spirit, throned and sceptred now 
 
 Within my breast, holds undivided reign : 
 Its influence is furrowed on my brow, 
 
 Haply not unallied with deeper pain ; 
 
 That Rubicon of life, none may regain, 
 I've passed — no matter how — no matter why — 
 
 We scarcely question those who ne'er complain — 
 The Stoic seeks no sympathetic sigh, 
 And may unchallenged pass on his lone journey by. 
 
 And on those hills there stirreth not a leaf 
 
 That teacheth not : nor bloometh here a flow'r, 
 Which, in its glowing life, however brief, 
 
 Hath not a language of convincing pow'r, 
 
 That telleth of annihilation's hour — 
 Corruptibility of material things ; 
 
 A destiny, bequeathed him as a dower, 
 Filleth the soul with high imaginings, 
 And beareth it to God on broad and willing wings. 
 
156 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 To these sublimities what were thy joy ? 
 
 Who waste the hours to Spirit consecrate, 
 Mingling the gold of life with base alloy ? 
 
 No morn can hither come to dissipate 
 
 The tireless joys which Spirit can create : 
 Glory and Beauty, Silence, Love, and Power, 
 
 And Truth, in sweet companionship with Fate, 
 Teaching Philosophy to meet that hour 
 When Death resumes his strength, and Faith reclaims 
 her dower. 
 
THE FAIRY'S VIGIL. 
 
THE FAIRY'S VIGIL. 
 
 " Should we not love her — the unsullied creature — 
 
 Pure as a lake-flower budding tremblingly ; 
 Love in each look, and beauty in each feature — 
 
 Earth's witchery ? 
 
 Should we not love her, when the song she singeth 
 
 Is like our own — sweet, wild and spirit-free ; 
 While Echo, charmed, her rapt responses ringeth 
 
 O'er lake and lea ? 
 
 Ye spirits of my realms, remotest, brightest, 
 
 Where sunlight dies not on the cloudless air, 
 Come ye of wing the softest, step the lightest, 
 
 Attendant here ! 
 
160 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Chase ye the Zephyrs when, at morning, going 
 Their rosy rounds of love, and bid them seek 
 Her bovver and breathe their freshness, rich and glowing, 
 
 Upon her cheek. 
 
 fn the carnation, coral-hued, there lieth, 
 
 When first the bee its crystal nectar sips, 
 A. charm ; arrest it ere to heaven it flieth, 
 
 For Lesbia's lips. 
 
 Bid Fancy, our most peerless painter, gather 
 From her celestial clime the brightest dyes, 
 And make the future as Pavonia's feather, 
 
 To glad her eyes. 
 
 Let Sleep, between her then and this fair vision, 
 Spread a transparent veil-work, that its beams, 
 Each with less dazzling light from isles elysian, 
 
 May glad her dreams. 
 
 To her uplifted bosom, as she sigheth, 
 
 Let Sleep then enter and such raptures wake, 
 That Fancy's world, where'er her spirit flieth, 
 
 Their hues will take. 
 
THE FAIRY'S VIGIL. 161 
 
 And, while amid the bliss of dreams she sleepeth, 
 
 Your gentle task pursue with gentlest art, 
 And see that Hope to its last pulses keepeth 
 
 Heaven in heart." 
 
 While thus the Fairy Queen was singing, 
 All her train their way were winging, 
 From those regions where the South 
 Breatheth from her rosy mouth 
 Living odors — from the West 
 Where they fan the Sun — God's rest — 
 From the North, where shines the palace 
 Of the bannered Borealis — 
 From the East, the land of spells, 
 Where the Genii Monarch dwells ; 
 Then, around their Queen arrayed, 
 Greeted thus the sleeping maid : 
 
 " As the sunbeams chase the shadows 
 From the depths of Summer meadows, 
 Hope shall launch, on golden pinions, 
 All the light of her dominions, 
 And a thousand dazzling glories, 
 Such as shine in Persian stories — 
 Glancing hither, flashing thither, 
 Yet can weary not nor wither; 
 
162 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 But with such a playful motion, 
 As of sunlight on the ocean — 
 Shall be, Lesbia ! ever o'er thee, 
 Round about thee and before thee, 
 Leaving Fancy free to make 
 Earth an Eden, for thy sake. 
 
 " Fancy — read in all the pages 
 
 Written in romantic ages : 
 
 When the ear of Love would linger 
 
 Near the raptured Menesinger, 
 
 And the hero, glory-crested, 
 
 From the wars, nor paused nor rested ; 
 
 Sought no interval of leisure, 
 
 Felt not pain nor heeded pleasure ; 
 
 Till he bent the knee of duty 
 
 At the burning shrine of Beauty : 
 
 And the kiss of love rewarded 
 
 Deeds by many a bard recorded — 
 
 Fancy, with those scenes will make, 
 
 Earth an Eden, for thy sake. 
 
 " Love — that life of earth's ideal — 
 Will these visions render real ; 
 Light and shade so truly giving, 
 Lesbia will believe them living — 
 
THE FAIRY'S VIGIL. 163 
 
 Living that she may enjoy them, 
 Daring ages to destroy them : 
 Be this Love like sunlight to her, 
 Seeming while it sets to woo her ; 
 In its evening we shall call her, 
 Lest its human fate befall her ; 
 That she die before it closes, 
 Even as dew on sun-lit roses — 
 Ere she see around her perish 
 All the dreams she loved to cherish ; 
 Thus shall we, together, make 
 Earth an Eden — for her sake." 
 
 Less sweetly did the sacred psalm 
 
 From Ela's vale, at close of day, 
 Through the blue heaven's enraptured calm, 
 
 Dissolve in holiness away, 
 Than, after few but blissful years, 
 
 Did Lesbia's spirit plume its flight, 
 Its loveliness untouched by tears — 
 
 Its path an avenue of light. 
 
THE TUSCAN GIRL. 
 
THE TUSCAN GIRL. 
 
 The year had purpled into vintage time, 
 And through the gushing valleys of that clime 
 Where Tuscany looks out with laughing eye, 
 And sees no cloud along her classic sky, 
 Gathered her youth, her beauty, and her health, 
 To treasure in their Bacchanalian wealth. 
 
 And there was one mid that exulting throng, 
 Who wandered mutely, pensively along ; 
 Her brow was clouded, and her azure eye 
 Looked not in gladness on that kindred sky ; 
 Yet scarce one Summer faded since she felt 
 The happiest heart that in Val d'Arno dwelt : 
 She mingled with the youthful and the gay, 
 And broad and bright her path of pleasure lay. 
 But clouds will darken even the fairest flow'rs, 
 And Fiametta mourned those golden hours, 
 
 i This poem is one of the Author's earliest poetical productions^ he was but 
 eighteen years of age when he wrote it. 
 
168 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Which, she believed, in her prophetic gloom, 
 Should ne'er again her form and face illume — 
 That form as graceful as the cedar's hight, 
 And that fair face like Summer morning's light. 
 
 She loved, and was beloved, as beauty should, 
 When, as the form is fair, the heart is good ; 
 And hers was pure and spotless — crime nor trace 
 Of sorrow stained or dimmed that holy place ! 
 
 Her young Antonio, even from a child, 
 Was brave, romantic, passionate and wild ; 
 He met — beheld — admired — adored the girl, 
 From Life's dark sea his pure and priceless pearl. 
 With a responding flame her bosom burned, 
 And sigh for sigh, and love for love returned. 
 
 One evening to Antonio's dwelling came 
 
 A gallant stripling, on a barb of flame ; 
 
 A snow-white plume his crimson bonnet bore, 
 
 Which gently waved his shaded forehead o'er ; 
 
 His mantle was a blaze of dazzling gold, 
 
 O'er which, with rival grace, his ringlets rolled : 
 
 And gems, like stars, spangled the azure vest, 
 
 Which closely fitted his Herculean breast. 
 
 He proudly waved his hand, and backward drew, 
 On either side, his princely retinue ; 
 
THE TUSCAN GIRL. 169 
 
 Then doffed his bonnet, with a martial grace, 
 And showed the bronzed beauty of his face. 
 
 Apart he led Antonio from the gaze 
 Of eyes, that lit with questioning amaze ; 
 But nothing could the inmates hear or see 
 To lull their doubts — all, all was mystery. 
 
 Antonio was not hence so often seen • 
 In the Val d'Arno, as he once had been ; 
 And she grew comfortless, and knew not why 
 Her own, her fond one should not still be nigh. 
 
 -V, -Ai. -Ai. ^L. .Afc, •&(, J£. ~-^- 
 
 ■7?" "Tr "Tr W W T^ "Tv* "7?* 
 
 Through the waked city the death-trumpet rang ; 
 But there no bosom throbbed with sorrow's pang — 
 All was exultance as the Helvetian lines 
 Led forth the robber of the Appenines. 
 
 His name had been a proverb in the land 
 
 That felt the force of his terrific brand ; 
 
 And vainly searched and climbed the hireling Swiss 
 
 The rocky haunt — the mountain precipice. 
 
 But Treachery showed the outlaw's cave at length, 
 
 Which mocked a hundred bayonets' searching strength. 
 
 Awhile he stood in thought, then seized his brand, 
 
 And at the cavern's entrance took his stand,' 
 
170 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 And there he stood, like desart-deer at bay, 
 
 Till round his brand a crimson breastwork lay. 
 
 No brother shared, beheld his brave despair., 
 
 Lonely he battled in his ringing lair ; 
 
 Nor stepped his foes beyond its gory brink, 
 
 Till, when his glutted brand refused to drink, 
 
 He bled — reeled — struggled — sank, senseless and cold, 
 
 And o'er his form the armed tempest rolled. 
 
 They cast him to a dungeon's gloom, and there 
 
 Forsook him to his weakness and despair. 
 
 He lingered on, withered and wild, though young; 
 
 Fetters around his wounded body clung ; 
 
 The only living thing within that tomb, 
 
 All fear and silence, solitude and gloom — 
 
 Save when some victim's groan, by torture wrung, 
 
 Through the replying walls its echo flung, 
 
 And with it all the thoughts, and pangs, and fears 
 
 Anticipated condemnation wears. 
 
 No health, no hope, no aperture was there, 
 To bless the mangled criminal that lay 
 Sighing the life he wildly cursed away, 
 
 With one refreshing breath of healthy air, 
 Or one beloved glimpse of passing day. 
 
 The hired Helvetians lead the culprit out, 
 
 Beneath the Justice-flag's avenging flout ; 
 
THE TUSCAN GIRL. 171 
 
 From hill and vale the gathering crowd came on, 
 
 To see, to mock that living skeleton ! 
 
 And on he went, wasted, and pale, and weak, 
 
 The wild mind warring still in eye and cheek ; 
 
 And, through the dreadful pageant, you might see 
 
 The lips at moments trembling lividly. 
 
 He gazed not, glanced not on the circling crowd ; 
 
 He heard not, heeded not the voices loud, 
 
 That changed from joy, and, as he onward went, 
 
 Gave to the murmuring winds their deep lament. 
 
 So young, so fair, so worn, so desolate — 
 
 Who could not, would not mourn his early fate ? 
 
 So changed was he, his mother might not trace 
 
 A living feature of Antonio's face ! 
 
 Antonio ? Yes, Antonio — it is he ! 
 
 Look on that brow, that eye, that symmetry — 
 
 How dimmed, and sunk, and changed ! But chains will 
 
 change 
 The form that loved the mountain's rugged range ! 
 More dim that eye — more pale that pallid cheek 
 Becomes, and — 
 
 Hark ! heard you that thrilling shriek ? 
 What form of beauty bursts, so widely fair, 
 Through the dividing crowd — through sword and spear? 
 Heav'ns ! how her pale lips press his drooping face ! 
 Why meets it not her passionate embrace ? 
 
172 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 He struggles — totters — falls. Oh ! tear not now 
 His Fiametta from that icy brow ! 
 
 " He lives ! he breathes ! his shattered bosom stirs !" 
 
 " Fool ! think you so ? 'T is not his breast — but hers." 2 
 
 " Guards ! Florentines ! bear ye the dead away ! 
 Her heart is broken — his is lifeless clay!" 
 
 2 Officer. Signor ! the boat is at the shore ; the wind 
 
 Is rising ; we are ready to attend you. 
 Jac. Fos. And I to he attended. Once more, father, 
 
 Your hand ! 
 Dogue. Take it. Alas ! how thine own trembles ! 
 
 Jac. Fos. No, you mistake ; 'tis yours that shakes, my father. 
 
 The Two Foscari. 
 
POEMS. 
 
A POEM. 
 
 DELIVERED BEFORE THE YOUNG FRIENDS OF IRELAND, 
 
 At their First Celebration of St. Patrick's Day ; March 18th ; 1843. 
 
 Know ye the Isle, where the monuments hoary, 
 
 Are emblems of those who abide in the land ? 
 Like rock-hidden waves flow her ages of story — 
 Now shrouded in darkness, now flashing in glory, 
 
 The sad and triumphant — the gloomy and grand ? 
 'T is the land of the Harp ! the green Isle of the Ocean, 
 
 Where Freedom once loved among freemen to roam, 
 To hear the glad songs of her Empire's devotion, 
 
 At morning and evening, from altar and home : 
 Where the Genius of Learning, strong plumed, and upsoaring 
 
 From groves academic, and Minstrelsy's springs, 
 The luminous truths of Creation exploring, 
 
 The sunlight of Knowledge brought down on his wings : 
 And, scatt'ring the magical light from his pinions, 
 Shed lustre and gladness o'er distant dominions, 
 Till the stranger, awaking, believed it a vision 
 Of the future of days from the islands Elysian ; 
 
176 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Or, in rapture of Truth, that reveals at a glance, 
 
 Eeality found what he deemed was Romance ; 
 
 'T is the land where Religion, down — down from the time 
 
 When first our Apostle her banner unfurled, 
 To this moment of triumph, untarnished by Crime, 
 
 Found the truest, the holiest home in the world ; 
 Where the heart is as warm and true as the sun, 
 
 And of social enjoyment the pulse and the planet, 
 Which, through every change, has unchangingly run 
 
 Round the circle of light since the time it began it. 
 Yes ! that is the land ! and those monuments hoary 
 We cherish as deathless mementos of glory. 
 
 Green Isle of the Atlantic wave ! 
 
 Fearless and strong, and yet a slave ; 
 
 How like the varied spring have been 
 
 Thy fortunes, Ocean's crownless Queen ! 
 
 The beams, propitiously benign, 
 
 That love on other lands to shine, 
 Give Summer warmth to mead and hill, 
 
 Flowers, breathing fragrance on the breeze, 
 
 And bright, green foliage to the trees ; 
 But thou art tears and darkness still : 
 And if a gleam of sunlight dashes 
 
 Out through the cumulous clouds awhile, 
 With unbeseeming light it flashes, 
 
 Like an expiring sufferer's smile, 
 
A POEM. 177 
 
 Born of the inner life's endeavor 
 
 To smile "farewell" — as though from tears, 
 
 Which were the destiny of years, 
 It were about to part forever. 
 Oh ! thine has been a hapless lot, 
 Isle of my memory's greenest spot ; 
 For, dark and cheerless as thou art, 
 
 Dragged from thy rightful place of pride, 
 Thou 'rt dearer to the exile's heart 
 
 Than if thou wert with Shame allied, 
 
 With the World in armor on thy side. 
 But this devoted love for thee 
 
 Is not to my lone heart confined, 
 For here, e'en in this place, I see 
 
 The arming of heroic mind — 
 Th' electric striking of the shield, 
 That signal of the battle field ; 
 Ay, here, within this classic hall, 
 
 Do I not see a glorious band ; 
 One principle the pulse of all — 
 
 The freedom of their Fathers' land ! 
 
 Young Friends of Ireland ! yet a while, 
 
 And ye, when Time, like the returning Nile, 
 
 Shall leave its harvest-promise on the soil — 
 
 Ye will inherit an illustrious toil ; 
 
 To be the friends of Freedom through the world, 
 
 And hail her standard wheresoe'er unfurled, 
 
178 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Be these your words of faithful feeling then — 
 
 " As we are now, our Fathers once were Men — 
 
 Men who in Freedom's cause were ever brave, 
 
 Beneath whatever sky, on field and wave ; 
 
 Their land was washed by no propitious flood, 
 
 Their Nile was Ireland's best and bravest blood. 
 
 But here 's a land to Man and Freedom given : 
 
 A sacred trust to Earth, bequeathed of Heaven ! 
 
 Be it our pride to guard her lofty fame, 
 
 Support her laws and vindicate her name. 
 
 Thus shall we best her principles extend, 
 
 And to the friendless be indeed a friend ; 
 
 Nor, free ourselves from the tyrannic chain, 
 
 No land shall seek our sympathies in vain !" 
 
 Young Friends of Ireland ! thoughts like these will bind 
 
 Love to Columbia — duty to Mankind. 
 
 And, first of Freedom's martyr-band, 
 She of the harp of mournful song, 
 
 Calls on the children of her land 
 To plead against the rule of wrong ; 
 
 In sympathetic strength to stand, 
 
 And advocate her just demand. 
 
 As winds, that pass o'er oriental bowers, 
 Bear to far lands the seeds of odorous flowers, 
 Which, springing up in spots of distant earth, 
 Beauty and fragrance give around and o'er, 
 
A POEM. 179 
 
 And breathe of virtues in that home of birth 
 
 Of which the stranger never knew before. 
 Even thus have you, my friends, been wafted hither ; 
 
 Bearing within you virtues high and grand, 
 Which, tried through many a tempest, will not wither ; 
 
 But, under more auspicious skies, expand, 
 
 A living glory to your Fatherland ; 
 Until Columbia's generous sons will say, 
 "Ireland is proud of these — and well she may." 
 
 Thus will each bright revolving year 
 Bring Ireland's hour of triumph near — 
 Thus will this annual time returning, 
 Behold our bosom-altars burning 
 With Freedom's consecrated light, 
 As pure, as honored and as bright 
 As that which hallows them to-night. 
 Then to the exile's ear shall come 
 The blast of trump and beat of drum, 
 And shouts from mountain-top to shore, 
 Proclaiming Ireland free once more — 
 The harp of Tara's halls re-strung, 
 Again the songs of Glory sung, 
 And raised, beside the Liffey's wave, 
 By the fond land he died to save, 
 The epitaph o'er Emmet's grave ! 
 
180 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 O'Cormell ! blest and mighty name, 
 
 Whose giant mind extends 
 To all its philanthropic aim, 
 
 Embracing all as friends — 
 What cares he for the Saxon's art ? 
 
 It cannot chain his glorious heart ; 
 Its pulses are on every wind 
 
 That sweeps around his land, 
 And those no prison bonds can bind, 
 
 No tyrant can command. 
 And Derrynane 1 his voice shall wake, 
 
 And Mangerton's rejoicing hight 
 Will pass it to Killarney's lake, 
 
 Whose echoes, with a new delight, 
 Shall wake to long forgotten smiles 
 
 The Spirits of her haunted isles. 
 
 Young Friends of Ireland ! now farewell ! 
 
 And may the memory of this day, 
 Like life itself within you dwell, 
 
 And only with it pass away ; 
 And when you hear of Ireland's name, 
 
 Still let your hearts with rapture swell 
 That you are children of her fame ! 
 
 Young Friends of Ireland — fare ye well 
 
 1 The residence of Mr. O'Connell. 
 
A POEM. 
 
 DELIVERED ON THE OCCASION OF MR. WALLACE'S LECTURE ON 
 
 IRISH ORATORY, 
 
 AT THE BROADWAY TABERNACLE, APRIL 20TH, 1843. 
 
 The heavens not alwavs are with clouds o'ercast ; 
 Ills, born of Earth, can not for ever last ; 
 The grasp, however muscular, of Crime, 
 Relaxes to the gradual strength of Time ; 
 His word, who made the Red Sea channel dry, 
 Will stay " the fruitful river of the eye," 
 And wrongs, though multitudinously hurled 
 Alp upon Alp, o'erlooking half the world, 
 And clasping millions in their shadows dim, 
 Will yield at length to Justice and to Him. 
 
 Awake ! arise ! Isle of the western wave, 
 Too vainly virtuous and too feebly brave, 
 Too long a slave, who, with o'erburdened brow, 
 Endures, not for himself, the laboring plough; 
 But with the golden harvests fills the soil, 
 And dies amid the treasures of his toil. 
 Arise ! exult ! for now at length for thee 
 Freedom awakes her song of Jubilee, 
 
182 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 And, like the Angel, seeks thy prison walls, 
 Inspires thy heart and on thy spirit calls, 
 And thunders with a cataract's mountain-glee, 
 " An epoch ! Eighteen hundred and forty-three !" 
 
 Oh ! with what sad endurance must the slave, 
 Like Israel exiled, weep beside the wave, 
 And hang the harp, forgetful of its pride, 
 Upon the willows bending o'er the tide; 
 Living in tearful hope that God will see 
 The mourner's heart, and set his country free. 
 And thus, fair land ! thou 'rt lingeringly pined, 
 With but one solace — thy triumphant Mind ! — 
 Which, rising with its bouyancy of form, 
 Pointed to Freedom's sun beyond the storm : 
 Nor, though in dearth of succor, hast thou need 
 Of one great Mind to organize and lead. 
 
 Thou art the master spirit ! thou alone 
 
 Could'st tune thy country's heart strings to the tone, 
 
 Silent too long, of Freedom ! to thy spell, 
 
 O'Connell ! answer Ireland's millions well. 
 
 Thine is her championship of moral power, 
 
 To rescue her hereditary dower, 
 
 To see her flag on her own hills unfurled, 
 
 And vindicate her rights before the world. 
 
 Could'st thou to foes her interests resign 
 
 The golden guerdons of the Crown were thine ! 
 
A POEM. 183 
 
 Some affluent exaltedness of place, 
 
 Where high Ambition well might close his race ; 
 
 But guilty Glory no attraction hath 
 
 To win thee from thy patriotic faith ; 
 
 Thine, proudly thine ! Hibernia's chosen chief, 
 
 To whom her emblem of the triple leaf 
 
 Is fairer, dearer, holier, brighter far 
 
 Than England's title, coronet or star ; 
 
 It sits more proudly on thy patriot breast 
 
 Than on the Traitor's brow the jewelled crest. 
 
 Land of my heart's affections ! well may'st thou 
 Lift at his uttered name thy joyous brow, 
 When first he rose, and, with prophetic voice, 
 Proclaimed that yet his country should rejoice, 
 And wake the triumph-song of Liberty 
 O'er happy homes, because o'er altars free. 
 The Island's millions started at the sound, 
 The people marvelled and the tyrants frowned ; 
 But armed with Right his giant mind arose, 
 Rushed to the field and triumphed o'er her foes. 
 And should, and shall we doubt he yet will burst 
 The last strong hold, who conquered thus the first 
 Doubt is no part of Ireland's nature — no ! 
 They doubt of conquest who have feared no foe ? 
 Doubt is the parent of the coward's doom, 
 And Ireland bears no cowards in her womb ; 
 Then him we doubt not ! 
 
184 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Lift thy Peans high 
 Thou fairest daughter of the western sky ; 
 Wake thy sweet lyre to songs of other years, 
 Their summer of the heart will dry thy tears, 
 And every valley catching up thy muse, 
 Will breathe it through her rosaries of dews ; 
 The Genius of thy land arrayed in light, 
 By Freedom led, shall walk each mountain hight, 
 And see thee once again — "my boyhood's home!" 
 Free as thy breeze and stainless as thy foam. 
 
CHAMP DE MAI. 
 
 " Bonaparte, habited in a crimson tnnic, and snrronnded by marshals, nobles 
 and dignitaries, from the platform in the open area distributed the eagles of the 
 different regiments, and viewed the troops alternately as they filed off in slow 
 time before him." — Stories op Waterloo. 
 
 Thou of earth's mighty mightiest ! Victor king ! 
 Prince of the world's potentates ! Crowned Caesar ! 
 Unwarned Balshazzar of the " Eternal City!" 
 Whom dangers love as moths the mortal blaze ; 
 Upon whose breath cameleon millions feed; 
 Wonder and dread of nations, hail to thee ! 
 . Again thou com'st, a burning thunderbolt, 
 Launched by the hand of Fate to shake our orb. 
 There, girt by princes and by prelates round, 
 Preachers of Heav'n, but vassals of thy will, 
 Thou sit'st exalted on the imperial throne, 
 Clothed in silk, and gold, and ermined purple, 
 And the far Orient's priceless pearls and plumes. 
 To swell thy pageant deafening plaudits roar, 
 Like the deep voice of the delirious sea, 
 And earth's artillery rivals that of heaven, 
 
186 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 The birds of Jove are here to wing thy fame 
 To the remotest shores, thy mandate's slaves ! 
 Courtiers on courtiers brilliantly arrayed, 
 And marshalled pomp of military men, 
 And France's gathered chivalry are thine ; 
 And now the mitred minister of peace, 
 And he, the Apostle of the Vatican, 
 Before that blazing altar's hallowed splendor, 
 Implore th' Omnipotent for France and thee. 
 Again the iron throats of many guns 
 Lift up the echoing sanction of their thunders, 
 Which find an echo in a million hearts. 
 
 See ! as thou speak'st, how every accent falls, 
 
 Like gold into the lap of Avarice, 
 
 Upon thy people : thou, indeed, art skilled 
 
 To rule the passions of the Populace ; 
 
 Deep taught in the dark lab'rinth of the Mind, 
 
 Thou need'st no Ariadne to direct 
 
 Thy pleasure through its most mysterious ways. 
 
 Unrivalled in thine own philosophy, 
 
 Thou " laugh'st at man, and laughing win'st" his love; 
 
 Hah ! dost thou kiss with thy polluted lips 
 
 That sacred book the breath of Heaven inspired ? 
 
 Dost thou not see before thy vision pass 
 
 The murdered victims of thy red ambition ? 
 
 Pause ! pause ! thou glittering Moloch ! has thy bark 
 
CHAMP DE MAI. 187 
 
 Not bounded onward through a sea of blood, 
 Wafted by breath of curses ? See thy hand 
 Stained with the massacre of Austerlitz, 
 And yet it trembles not. Thy heart is stone, 
 Thy soul is blinded, or the thousand ghosts 
 That howl upon the midnight Pyrenees, 
 Had poured a sheet of blood upon the page ; 
 Thy ear is deaf, or thou had'st heard no sound 
 But that which Russia's snows can never hush. 
 The deed is ratified — the die is cast — 
 'T is done, and thou art Emperor once more. 
 
 Who are these chiefs that slowly now approach, 
 In bright habiliments, the royal throne ; 
 Bearing the lightning-banners of the land 
 That flashed before the desperate Mamaluke, 
 And broke the stony sleep of Egypt's kings 
 Long sepulchred within their wondrous tombs ? 
 God ! what a spirit-stirring spectacle ! 
 See ! with what ardor, springing from his throne 
 And shooting through the dazzled multitude 
 The electric thrill of his superior mind, 
 The Emperor dashes off his purple robe 
 To meet the silken heralds of his conquests. 
 
 -V-- -*£- -^- ^fc !^r ^<; ^ «&£- 
 
 Ambition ! here 's thy highest elevation ; 
 Earth's millions cannot lift thy pinion higher. 
 
188 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Pride, Glory, Conquest, Pomp, Dominion, Power, 
 Unfallen, unchecked, undimmed, are slaves to thee. 
 And now full fifty thousand hearts that shine, 
 Like mirrors faithful to thy proud reflection ; 
 Banners in countless thousands, and the blaze 
 Of military splendor, and the crash, 
 Mingled melodiously, of martial music ; 
 The wave of plumes and sheen of helmed heads, 
 And spears, and swords, and marshalled musketry, 
 All pass devotedly beneath thine eye, 
 Ready again to cloud the mountain tops, 
 And rain a bloody deluge on the earth. 
 
 And what is all this bauble? Like the ball 
 
 That boyhood blows into the reckless air, 
 
 That breaks its varied colors with a breath. 
 
 Better and safer had'st thou not aspired 
 
 Beyond the sphere where thou alone could'st bless, 
 
 And like the saviour of the western world, 
 
 Immortal Washington, sceptred and crowned 
 
 With a free nation's love, a nation's pride ; 
 
 Not with those gilded perishable things 
 
 Whose flashes blast thy country's independence, 
 
 For they are vanity. 
 
SACRED MELODIES. 
 
SACRED MELODIES. 
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 " And thou Bethlehem, in the land of Judea, art not the least among the Princes 
 of Judea, for out of thee shall come a Governor that shall rule my people." 
 
 Matt. 2 c. v. 6. 
 
 Midnight along Judea's hills is sleeping, 
 
 And Bethle'ms halls enjoy the dreaming hours, 
 
 Upon her plains shepherds, their vigils keeping, 
 
 Sit by their fleecy care. Round Heaven's high tow'rs 
 
 Millions of star-eyed sentinels arise, 
 
 Mysteries of earth, and children of the skies. 
 
 Oh, Night ! how lovely is thy star-light shining 
 
 Up in the welkin beautifully blue : 
 With, here and there, some minstrel cloud reclining, 
 
 As if to see the Queen Moon riding through 
 Her glittering host, and from her glorious face 
 To catch one smile of pure and passing grace. 
 
192 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 But hark ! what sounds so solemn and so holy — 
 As if Heaven woke its realm's unnumbered lyres, 
 
 In one harmonious tide gushing out slowly, 
 To kindle Earth with David's rapturous fires ? 
 
 How sweet — how wordless the ecstatic swell ; 
 
 And these the errand joys the tidings tell : 
 
 " Glory to God on high !" is gladly blended 
 
 With " peace to mankind of good will on earth," 
 
 Proclaims the Prophets' Promised One descended, 
 To burst our bondage and renew our birth — 
 
 To gem with flowers the thorny pain we trod, 
 
 And give to Man the mercy of his God. 
 
 But where 's creation's virgin-born Redeemer, 
 The vest heraldic rich from loom and mine — 
 
 Trumpet and harp, cymbal and silken streamer, 
 To hail the born of David's royal line — 
 
 Where are the shouts of nations won from sin — 
 
 And glad Judea's multitudinous din ? 
 
 The brazen helm and ready falchion flashing, 
 To testify the grateful warrior's zeal — 
 
 The charger, housed in gold and purple, dashing, 
 And waiving plume, and mail of dazzling steel — 
 
 The chariot proud, and all the rich array 
 
 Which should have led a king's and conqueror's way 
 
CHRISTMAS. 193 
 
 Where is His couch of silk : such as the olden 
 And curious artizans produced in Tyre, 
 
 Curiously wove in silken thread and golden, 
 
 Where, banquetted with kings, kings might retire ? 
 
 Ah ! such vain perishing pageants are not given 
 
 To Him — the meek-born royalty of Heaven. 
 
 In yonder manger, by the snows surrounded, 
 Lies the proclaimed one of the Father's love — 
 
 No joy is voiceful there — no triumph sounded, 
 But of the Virgin's, to the throne above - 
 
 There lies the Saviour with his mother lonely, 
 
 Their canopy, heaven's wint'ry concave only. 
 
 Ye who are throned mid what the world calls glory, 
 
 By trembling millions semi-deified, 
 Your pillaged kingdoms and your triumph gory, 
 
 Say ! what is now your nothingness of pride ? 
 But for the Humble and the virtuous Poor 
 The kingdom of His Father shall endure. 
 
 Hail dawning of Salvation's sacred morning, 
 Hail triune Godhead, source and life of love, 
 
 Hail earth-redeeming One — e'en Heaven adorning 
 With all that earth could ever send above ! 
 
 And when Salvation's second morn shall rise, 
 
 Let all repentant praise thee in the skies. 
 
194 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 CORPUS CHRISTI. 
 
 Sun of the Mom ! that, from the eastern hills, 
 Awakes the world, and earth with glory fills, 
 
 I love to see thy bannered light unrolled : 
 To see the conscious ocean pride in thee, 
 Beauty and life adorn each flower and tree, 
 
 And every dew-drop turned to liquid gold ! 
 
 But with more sacred gladness do I now 
 Behold in heaven the splendor of thy brow, 
 
 Bringing to man this morn of jubilee : 
 Inviting us the Bread of Life to share- — 
 To love's own altar-banquet to repair, 
 
 And read, with faith, the living mystery ! 
 
 O mystery ! not mystic to the eye 
 
 Whose light is faith in Him beyond the sky — 
 
 Faith not of earth, but born of God above — 
 The mystery which inner life proclaims, 
 And with its photographic truth inflames 
 
 Upon the heart the image of His love. 
 
CORPUS CHRIST!. 195 
 
 Truth of the sacrament to faith revealed, 
 In strictly human elements concealed 
 
 From mortal eye ! Fulness of love divine ! 
 Feast of the faithful! Fulness of the Lord! 
 Of justice Justifler ! God's award ! 
 
 I bow in tears before thy mercy's shrine. 
 
 Who, of this day contemplative, can look 
 On sunrise, opening like a mystic book 
 
 Written by Truth, nor see the promised morn 
 When, by this banquet strengthened, he can rise 
 From the deep night of death, and tread the skies 
 
 In Heaven's broad sunshine soaringly reborn ! 
 
 Descending from the twelve, from hour to hour, 
 Of eighteen hundred years of growing power, 
 
 From where the fragrant groves of Ispahan 
 From the Propaganda's voice of truth receive, 
 Listen, love, reverence, exult, believe, 
 
 To where Columbia hails the free-born man. 
 
 Descending through the Twelve, pure, as when first 
 The sunlight of the Word from darkness burst, 
 
 Is Rome's high Catholicity of sway ; 
 Humble and pure — north, south, and east, and west 
 The rock-built Church haileth, in every breast, 
 
 The Corpus Christi of Salvation's day. 
 
196 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Glory to God ! that spareth me to see 
 Throughout the earth this wondrous unity, 
 
 Its source the Saviour, and its centre Rome ! 
 Marking on History's page, with pen sublime, 
 The proud, triumphant age of Christian time, 
 
 And guiding man to his celestial home. 
 
 Here sacrifice and sacrament unite ; 
 
 The mortal's anguish and the Godhead's might, 
 
 The real, not the type of saving grace ; 
 Let us, to-day, regenerated be, 
 Fulfil the faith, bend the repentant knee, 
 
 And, true in spirit, seek God's holy place. 
 
 Let us believe, adore, love, hope and pray, 
 Let faith on wings expansive hail this day, 
 
 Surmount the clouds, and soar beyond the sun ; 
 And into Heaven presume, and drop one tear 
 Of the pure, humbled heart's repentance there, 
 
 And see the goal of promise won. 
 
SACRED MELODY. 
 
 To The Rev. John N. Smith, of Alexandria, D. C. 1 
 "Deposuifc potentas de sede, et exaltavit humiles." 
 
 What care I how frequent or dim 
 The frown of the proud one may be ; 
 
 My pride and my hope are in Him, 
 Who from bondage set Israel free, 
 And buried her foes in the sea. 
 
 But if in contentment I tread, 
 
 Mid the splendor and pomp of this sphere, 
 
 'T is not that ambition is dead ; 
 It is that my spirit is there — 
 Far, far o'er the wild fields of air. 
 
 Give ingots to misers and kings ! 
 The glen and the mountain for me : 
 
 Where Nature's wild melody rings, 
 
 And the green leaves are dancing with glee, 
 In the arms of the old forest tree. 
 
 Now the Pastor of St. James's Chnrch, New- York. 
 
198 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 Where the cataract leaps in its pride, 
 And the rivulet gushes along, 
 
 The wild flowers kissing its tide, 
 Or dancing in faery-like throng 
 Eound the home of the Spirit of Song, 
 
 Or forth on creation to look, 
 
 When no wave on the ocean is curled, 
 
 When Nature unfoldeth her book, 
 
 And the banner of morning 's unfurled, 
 And light is awaking the world. 
 
 When in all that we feel and behold, 
 Sun, firmament, ocean, or flower, 
 
 Or forest, or mountain, is told 
 The Godhead's omnipotent power, 
 And His love to us — worms of an hour. 
 
 Or when, in her silvery car, 
 
 Ascending yon shadowless hight, 
 
 The Queen-Moon calls out every star, 
 To illumine the march of the night, 
 From their dwellings of music and light. 
 
 Alone on the humble can those 
 
 A joy and a promise bestow, 
 Fill the spirit with Christian repose ; 
 
 The heart with a healthier glow, 
 
 And give us a heaven below. 
 
SACRED MELODY. 199 
 
 Then what care I how frequent or dim 
 The frown of the haughty one be, 
 
 My pride and my hope are in Him, 
 Who from bondage set Israel free, 
 And buried her foes in the sea. 
 
200 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 To J. E. McHenry ; Esq. ; of Baltimore; 
 
 ON THE DEATH OP HIS MOTHER. 
 
 Can this be death ? 
 
 The yielding up a transitory breath — 
 
 Seeking a tranquil for a stormy clime — 
 
 Pleasure for pain — eternity for time — 
 
 The kingdom where Creation's' birth began : 
 
 And Heaven's sweet harps for earth, and God for man ? 
 
 No ! 't is not death. 
 
 And what is death ? 
 
 Ah ! dark despair to yield th' unwilling breath — 
 
 To see with bursting eye the charnal ope — 
 
 The past a curse — the future without hope — 
 
 Beside the bed the ghost of Time, 
 
 Leading, with gory hand, accusing Crime ? 
 
 Ah ! that is death. 
 
 Then 't is not death, 
 
 My friend, that closed thy pious mother's breath, 
 
 'T was Heaven, its meed of glory to bestow, 
 
 That called her soul above from ills below. 
 
 " Death is sin's wages," thus the Saviour said : 
 
 And she was sinless — can she then be dead? 
 
 No ! 't is not death. 
 
JEPHTHAH'S VOW. 201 
 
 JEPHTHAH'S VOW. 
 
 Judges, chap. xi. 5 v. 30-33. 
 
 Oh ! who are yon maidens, so lovely and pale, 
 The voice of whose anguish is loud on the gale ? 
 For whom falls the tear o'er the fire of those eyes — 
 For whom is the bosom uplifted with sighs ? 
 
 Oh ! they are the daughters of Israel's pride, 
 And they weep for the maid who has shone by their side, 
 Who came with the timbrel, the song, and the dance, 
 And was glad in the triumph of Israel's lance. 
 
 For the children of Ammon were scattered in fight, 
 As the leaves of the wood, in the hurricane's might, 
 The cities were shaken, and filled with their dead, 
 And the plain of the vine with the carnage was red. 
 
 Now Jephthah to Heaven had uttered a vow, 
 That, if Israel's triumph should laurel his brow, 
 The first he should meet at the door, he would yield 
 As an offering to Him who had guided the field. 
 
202 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 He came back in triumph and transport, and they 
 Who had scorned him were first in his brilliant array ; 
 To Mizpeh he came, and the timbrel and dance 
 Went forth, with his people, to hail his advance. 
 
 But whom met he first of the many that smiled ? 
 His daughter ! his only, his beautiful child ! 
 And his garments he rent, and his bosom he gored, 
 For the victim he promised was she he adored. 
 
 But the promise was made to the Godhead of Truth, 
 And his daughter, though yet in her beauty and youth, 
 In gladness the path of the sacrifice trod, 
 An offering laid on the altar of God. 
 
 Oh ! thus may no fetter, though flowering it be, 
 Thou tearful existence attach us to thee ; 
 Be the courage of Jephthah the guide of our mind, 
 And our feelings forgot for the good of our kind. 
 
THE LEPER. 203 
 
 THE LEPER. 
 
 St. Luke, Chap. 5., v. xii. 
 
 To Jesus they brought him, the sinful and weak, 
 And the death hue o'ershadowed his brow and his cheek ; 
 And the multitude gathered to hear and to see . 
 The Hope of the Prophets in fair Galilee. 
 
 And the Leper, approaching the Son of the Word, 
 Knelt down, and besought, and beseeching adored, 
 And said, in the faith of his confident soul, 
 " Oh Lord ! if thou wilt, thou can'st render me whole." 
 
 And the faith of the Leper was favored by Him, 
 In the light of whose shadow the sun-beam is dim ; 
 He held forth his hand, and the God was revealed ; 
 He uttered the word, and the Leper was healed. 
 
 Oh ! thus may my faith undiminished remain, 
 To rescue my soul from Impurity's stain ; 
 That I may deserve Thy redemption, and feel 
 With Humility's faith that Thy mercy can heal. 
 
204 SHEA'S POEMS. 
 
 SACRED MELODY. 
 
 When will the veil, oh God ! which hides thee now, 
 Be drawn aside from thy Almighty brow : 
 
 And when shall I Salvation's light behold ? 
 Weary am I and worn with wandering, 
 Then when, oh ! when shall my returning wing 
 
 Mid Heaven's bright land its languid plumage fold ? 
 
 In this dark world the wicked one is strong, 
 His toils are spread around me, and I long 
 
 To walk in peace the spirit land above ; 
 Then hear my prayer, oh God ! and summon back 
 The wanderer from his bleak and stormy track, 
 
 To feel thy presence and to share thy love. 
 

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