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IRELAND: 
 
 A POEM. 
 
 JOHN NEWLAND MAFFITT. 
 
 LOUISVILLE: 
 
 PRENTICE AND WEISSINGKK, 
 
 1839. 
 
9'540 
 
 1808. 
 
MY COUNTRYMEN, 
 
 THIS POEM 
 
 IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 There is a lovely island which is washed by the 
 bright waves of the Atlantic. There is such a charm 
 lingering around its classic ground that whoever has 
 ever fixed his eyes upon its calm scenery, can never — 
 never forget Ireland. So great is the antiquity of 
 its institutions, that when the ruin lay like a thunder 
 cloud on the horizon of the Roman Empire, and the 
 Goths and Vandals rolled their barbarian hordes over 
 the Campania, and swept Italy with the besom of de- 
 struction, the sweet Emerald Isle was a refuge for 
 the learned and virtuous of other countries. The 
 terror of a falling nation never reached this seques- 
 tered and beautiful island ; the shrieks of the victims 
 were lost in the wild passes and glens of the Alps, 
 save when the demon hordes, like an avalanche, broke 
 from the eternal brow of the mountains, and shook 
 the vallies of northern Europe. How pleasant here 
 to recognize the beginnings of literary distinction — 
 the ardent love of letters that has ever distinguished 
 the Irish nation ! These illustrious refugees scattered 
 the seeds of literary inquiry, and became themselves 
 incorporated with a people who were soon called to 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 meet the wave of Norman conquest, that had rolled 
 over England and Scotland. The Danish yoke, once 
 imposed on these spirit breathing men, sat heavily, 
 and was indignantly thrown off in the deadly tug of 
 war. Ireland then had her kings of noble deeds ; she 
 had her Brian, who, one thousand years after the 
 birth of Christ, in the eighty-eighth year of his age, 
 strewed Clontarf 's bloody field with Danes, and poured 
 out his life in the arms of victory. * * * * 
 
 Ireland's history is written in the brightest sun- 
 beams that ever shot like quivering lances from the 
 golden bow of the God of day. It is a rainbow, 
 spanning two hemispheres and formed by the refrac- 
 tion of the rays of genius, in the tears of its suffer- 
 ings. It is like a weeping willow on the banks of the 
 Shannon dripping with the dews of sorrow, and glit- 
 tering with the sunshine of mirth. No mountain-load 
 of woe has been able to press the genius of our 
 country in the dust. Her plaints of sorrow have so 
 much music in them, that they ravish the earth — and, 
 cruelty drives home the rack with fiercer energy that 
 the song may be more thrilling still, vibrating on the 
 charmed senses like a plaintive wind note in all the 
 luxury of music. 
 
 But what is Ireland that her sons can never forget 
 her? She is a nucleus of jewels — a volcanic pyre of 
 diamonds! Let convulsions rend her to the centre, 
 
INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 and the most dreadful volcanic spasms toss in whirling- 
 fragments the deepest substratum of her society, and 
 you shall see ten thousand sparkling gems, thrown 
 full and clear and dazzling in the keen eye of the sun ; 
 and as they fall in distant lands, they are torn yet 
 glittering jewels still. 
 
 Her eloquence is an eternal protest against tyranny, 
 and an eternal plea for liberty. Her laurels ! where 
 are they not ? Moistened by Irish blood, they bloom 
 on the world's every hard-fought field, from the inva- 
 sion of Caesar to the mound of Waterloo — from the 
 crusades in Palestine to the defence of New Orleans — 
 from the invasion of the Danes to Clontarf 's bloody 
 plain. Her sons are the denizens of the earth. 
 Wherever freedom is, thpre too is their country, a 
 copy in external form of what they would have Erin ; 
 but never can they find in the bright green earth, a 
 copy of that mental image which beams like the bless- 
 ed evening star, in every exile's bosom. Dear, illus- 
 trious country! In vain I look to find an age of 
 savagism in thy primitive history. Yes! Full grown, 
 mature, beautiful in majesty, and armed to the 
 teeth, as Minerva when she leaped into being from 
 the head of Jove, we find Ireland at Rome's proudest 
 hour, the home of princes and sages and the altars of 
 civilization ; and when eighteen centuries ago, Chris- 
 tianity, after her baptism of blood on Calvary, went 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 out as a teacher to all nations, an apostle who had heard 
 the blessed Savior, face to face, was seen in the green 
 Isle of the ocean teaching a blessed immortality to 
 the accomplished Milesian colony. 
 
 Look for a moment at the revolutionary history of 
 America. The plains of Quebec are crimsoned with 
 the blood of our own Montgomery. He fell in the 
 sacred cause of American freedom, while Irish swords 
 have been seen flashing in the sultry sun-bursts of 
 India, mounting the breaches of Seringapatam, and at 
 the foot of the Pyramids of the Kile. Shall we 
 recall the name of Emmet ? The image of the tall 
 white obelisk, now pressing on his cold bosom, rises 
 on the mind's eye, a vision of honor and renown 
 gained in exile. But where shall we not look ? 
 
 Away — away again over the dark blue Atlantic, 
 we turn our eyes once more to that gem of the ocean, 
 and contemplate for a moment the living energies of 
 that peopled Isle. Roll mountains of power upon her 
 and still she lives deep down beneath the avalanche. 
 Dragoon her hills, and array the soldiery of the united 
 kingdom upon her vales; yet still the whispers of 
 freedom and the breathings for national liberty ride in 
 the angry whirlwinds and sigh in the evening zephyr. 
 Inurn her beneath the earth and write on the tablets of 
 nations that she is no more, and you will see her 
 immortal form still peering above the burial and laugh- 
 

 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ing to scorn the inscription and the hand that wrote 
 it. Cover her deeper yet, and still she lives. There 
 is a flower of lovely beauty and rich fragrance ; tread 
 on that flower, crush it to the dust — it will bloom but 
 the brighter ; it will under the tread of oppression 
 ravish the senses with its fragrance. Yet is she not 
 a passive tamed sufferer. The roar of her threaten- 
 ing eloquence in the halls of St. Stephen often turns 
 the Lion of England pale. Still and forever, she 
 protests against the decapitation of her political head. 
 Still and forever — let her protest — unless the strong 
 yield the boon, and the cruel restore the prey. 
 
 Her poetry — the national poetry of Erin! how 
 shall I describe it ? ' It was said of one that her voice 
 was tears. So are the songs of the Irish — but when 
 tuned to lively feelings they are not tears ; they are 
 the dances of the heart ; they are the gambols of the 
 sweet affections ; they quicken the blood ; they deepen 
 the flash of the eye ; they crimson the cheek ; they 
 are wandering spirit-tones, the gushes of song that 
 are borne by stray winds from the sounding ocean of 
 immortal harmony. Bards of my country! I hail 
 you across the glassy sea — and when the least touch 
 of your thrilling stanzas beats on the tympanum of 
 my soul, I am more than ever proud of my country. 
 
 Louisville, September, 1839. 
 
IRELAND. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 " A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
 
 Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
 
 O'er the far times." Byron. 
 
 From Memory's magic realm, recalled, I see, 
 Erin, thy rich enchanting scenery! 
 Dear Isle of hearts! the loveliest and best 
 That slumbers, cradled on the ocean's breast! 
 All that is bright and beautiful and high, 
 Sublime or terrible in earth or sky; — 
 The gently sloping vale, the hoary hill, 
 
12 IRELAND. 
 
 The yawning dell, the cavern deep and still, 
 The soft winged airs that kiss the dewy eve, 
 The tempest's breath, the wild sea's billowy heave, 
 Sweet fruits that melt in fragrance on the gale, 
 The leaping waters in the pebbly vale, 
 Flowers of strange bloom, bewildering the eye, 
 The scented shrub, the war oak towering high, 
 Bright skies so silvery, beautiful and fair, 
 As if soft light from Eden wandered there, 
 Are all thine own, with every charm unrolled 
 That ever fringed Arcadia's green and gold ! 
 
 Oh, had the risen star of freedom shone 
 
 On scenes like these, so beautiful — thine own — 
 
 How gladsome on the heart, like bursts of song, 
 
 Would memory roll thy storied years along ! 
 
 How like an evergreen thy power had been 
 
 And Erin then had rivalled ocean's queen ! 
 
 But Erin ! thine own harp alone may tell, 
 
 How strong and deep the tyrant's long-drawn spell ; 
 
 Toned like the moaning winds at close of day 
 
 In pensive murmurs as they die away, 
 
 No stranger hand may touch its golden wires, 
 
 No stranger heart the sorrowing theme inspires, 
 
IRELAND. IT 
 
 Thy children only may thy sorrows know 
 Who bend beneath the aggravated wo ; 
 Others may speak of what they never felt, 
 And, touched by sympathy, may even melt, — 
 But none, save those who breathed thy balmy air, 
 Can feel the chain that binds thee to despair. 
 
 Earth's denizens ! young freedom's cygnet home 
 
 Is yours — it matters not where'er you roam, 
 
 For, in your bosoms shrined, at home, abroad, 
 
 You worship Freedom second to your God : 
 
 But, wanderers still, you search the green earth o'er, 
 
 In vain, to find what you shall see no more — 
 
 That mental image which sweet Erin pressed, 
 
 In sad farewell, upon her exiles' breast : 
 
 Long may the melancholy smile, through tears, 
 
 That shone upon the dawn of earlier years, 
 
 Be present to your view till times gone by 
 
 Shall rush again before the startled eye, 
 
 Those times when Ireland was the muses' throne, 
 
 On which they sat — unrivalled and alone ! 
 
 The airs of Erin ! flowers of poetry ! 
 
 Oh, they are sad, yet touched with mirthful glee, — 
 
14 IRELAND, 
 
 The dances of the heart, affection's flow, 
 Touchingly beautiful — now deep, now slow,— 
 Then light and merry as the winged feet 
 Of those whose pulses to wild music beat, — 
 Wandering spirit-tones by stray winds borne, 
 To soothe the pangs of feeling wrecked and torn, 
 Or trnmpet-tongued, to cleave the vaulted sky, 
 And fill expanse with thundering melody. 
 
 And Erin's laurels ! where are they ? afar, 
 Where war and genius lighted glory's star; 
 In every hard-fought field, from Caesar, down 
 To where Napoleon lost his iron crown ; 
 In Palestine, in Italy — along 
 The shores renowned in glory or in song. 
 
 Illustrious land ! the cradle of the free ! 
 Though hard thy fortunes, dark thy destiny, 
 No savage era on thy history lies; 
 Letters and arts have ever cheered thy skies; 
 And science too, beneath thine olden wing, 
 Was cherished long by seer, and bard, and king, 
 
IRELAND. 13 
 
 And of Milesius proud tradition spoke 
 Ere Albion from her Druid durance broke, 
 Or haughty Rome her eagle flag unfurled 
 To gain the empire of a captive world. 
 'Twas then the sainted prophet came to thee, 
 Baptized in blood of him of Calvary, 
 Teaching the blessed precepts of the cross 
 Refined from earth and pure from sinful dross. 
 
 Still nurse thy living energies proud Isle ! 
 
 And wreathe thy classic brow with glory's smile, — 
 
 For never from the burning scroll of fame 
 
 Shall dark oppression blot thy deathless name ! 
 
 Though deep below the avalanche of wrong, 
 
 Hurled by a cruel arm in vengeance strong, 
 
 Thy pleasant vales have faded from the eye, 
 
 The joyless, dim abodes of misery, — 
 
 Yet rises, shrieking up to nature's God, 
 
 The voice of agony beneath the rod; 
 
 And He who summons nations to his bar 
 
 Shall roll along thy shores his judgment car, 
 
 And terror with his gory locks shall call 
 
 Thy plunderers to a fearful carnival. 
 
16 IRELAND. 
 
 Freedom is planted in the ancient graves^ 
 It murmurs in the lonely mountain caves 9 
 It rushes in the living seas that lash 
 The Giant's pillars in perpetual dash, 
 Tossing on high the banner sheets of green. 
 Such as of old in Clontarf 's field were seen, 
 It whispers at the try sting hour of love, 
 While every star is witnessing above, 
 With vows of faith presentiments of fear, — 
 For, one day, may she not with anguish learn 
 Of a dark journey whence there 's no return ? 
 And he, the traveller, may the loved one be 
 To whom she pledges troth and destiny. 
 In vain, by the pale moonlight's quivering ray 
 May she explore the field of bloody fray ; 
 Her tears cannot reanimate the dead, 
 Or rally back the patriot spirit fled. 
 
 The lion chivalry of Albion's throne 
 
 Sweep Erin's hills and call her vales their own y 
 
 But every echo carries back a hiss — 
 
 The curse of centuries reserved to this. 
 
 Inurn the victim ! let her name of tears 
 
IRELAND. 17 
 
 Be blotted from the map of coming years, 
 
 Yet, from her tomb, a spectre shall unroll, 
 
 In accusation deep, a written scroll 
 
 Signed by the virtues, sealed with generous blood, 
 
 Poured out in torrents, like a mountain flood — 
 
 A stern appeal sent up in record dread 
 
 For entry with the Judge of quick and dead. 
 
 No dastard wailings from the crushed and lone 
 Have ever mingled in the Irish groan, 
 Sent up, perchance, like battle slogan more 
 Than moan e'er made by misery before ; 
 She wears the manacles, yet tosses high 
 The iron thongs full in creation's eye ! 
 
 Ye who have seen her exile o'er the sea, 
 Say if he quailed before his destiny, 
 Or did not kindle into freedom's flame 
 At the low whisper of his country's name ! 
 Has he not sworn on every holy hill 
 His vows to liberty eternal, still, 
 And, dying, left to tyrants all his hate, 
 Piled up in death before oppression's gate ? 
 There is a flower of beauty — crush its stem, 
 
18 IRELAND. 
 
 And tread its petals with their pearly gem 
 Still it will spring again in wonted bloom, 
 Filling the wilderness with rich perfume : — 
 So wounded Erin renovates from wrong, 
 Her harp of sorrow weeps into a song, 
 And, oh, my country ! like the dying swan, 
 Pours sweeter tones when life is almost gone. 
 
 THE HARP SONG. 
 
 The bud and the blossom have fallen, 
 
 Keen bloweth the wintry blast, 
 And thou, too, art sere, Innisfallen! 
 
 Thy summer of glory hath passed, 
 And the winds are rudely beating 
 
 In tempests upon thy head, — 
 But spring shall come with its greeting 
 
 When the storm-clouds all have fled ; 
 Green, then, be the gem of the ocean, 
 When hushed is this wintry commotion ! 
 
 A moaning comes over the sea 
 
 And the exile of Erin is sad ; 
 Though he dwell in the land of the free 7 
 
IRELAND. 19 
 
 Yet not like the free is he glad, — 
 For there comes from the ivied halls, 
 
 Where the bones of his fathers repose, 
 The groan of the tottering walls, 
 
 Where once piles of power arose. 
 Green, green, be thy hills forever, 
 Though my eyes may see them never ! 
 
 Like a dove from its nest away, 
 
 On its wearied wing upborne, 
 All wet with the wide sea's spray, 
 
 With its plumes by whirlwinds torn, 
 The lone exile of Erin would greet 
 
 The sight of the green ocean Isle, 
 A rest for his weary feet, 
 
 Where tears would be wreathed in a smile. 
 Green, green, be the gem of the sea, 
 Dear Isle, that I never may see ! 
 
20 IRELAND. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 Deep back in time's far reaching night of years 
 The earlier dawn of Erin's fame appears; 
 Phoenicia's sons from Egypt sought the west, 
 Where day's proud monarch sinks to golden rest ; 
 Their galley prows, along the Tyrrhene wave, 
 Hold on their course in gallant bearing brave, 
 'Till spectral Thule, Gibraltar's granite throne, 
 Bounded that earth which mortals called their own, 
 Then, gazing fearful, on Atlantis looked, 
 Whose awful wave, no master prow had brooked, 
 And inly shuddered at our ocean's song 
 Borne in low thunder-tones of dread along. 
 
 Far to the right they saw Iberia's hills, 
 Vine-covered, beautiful with silver rills, 
 The land, where Hercules, in olden time, 
 Had reared the pillars of his might sublime, — 
 And there they nursed their infant state awhile, 
 'Till better fortunes o'er their sky should smile. 
 Still and anon mysterious hints were rife 
 Of lands amid the ocean's ceaseless strife, 
 
IRELAND 2] 
 
 And rumor, thousand tongued, would ever say 
 That fields of golden fruitage westward lay, 
 Where tempered nature spread her arms unseen, 
 Blooming in pride, where man had never been. 
 What Ariel whisperer breath'd this thrilling tale, 
 And flung the promise on the western gale, 
 What sounds of beauty toned upon the surge 
 The ardor of adventurous men to urge, 
 We ne'er may know ; the summons rang once more 
 Like prophet echoes, on that self same shore, 
 Ere he of Palos found a virgin world, 
 And on her mountains Spain's proud flag unfurled. 
 
 Again the triremes dance upon the sea, 
 
 Ploughing the waves of sullen destiny, 
 
 With awe advancing on that wasteful deep, 
 
 The boundary of earth — beyond whose sweep 
 
 Creation rested, like a giant tired 
 
 With labor that his earlier strength inspired ; 
 
 But, strange to tell, as on and on they sail, 
 
 Nor sun, nor moon, nor stars their guidance fail, 
 
 The curling foam still whitened into spray 
 
 As when they left fair Egypt's seven mouth 'd bay. 
 
■12 IRELAND. 
 
 Nor long their onward course they patient held 
 
 'Till in the deep blue heavens, at morn beheld, 
 
 A line of mimic mountains painted hung 
 
 Gentle as waves from Neptune's chariot flung ; 
 
 And fair as Cytheraea, the foam-born queen, 
 
 Fresh from the ocean, rounded hills were seen 
 
 With glorious streams and slumbering vales between. 
 
 Joy from a thousand sunny eyes shone out, 
 Joy thundered in a wild triumphant shout, 
 Joy beat in pulses, from the heart propelled, 
 Joy throbbed in bosoms that the snow excelled ; 
 Joy — joy — a world in ocean's empire born, 
 Salutes the sun and kisses the fresh morn. 
 The hail, the cheerful cry, the loud command, 
 The friendly greetings to the new found land, 
 The tear that rushed unbidden to the eye 
 Swelled less by sorrow than by extacy, 
 The sweep of bending oars, the sudden shrieks 
 Of snow-white gulls, first startled from the creeks, 
 The laugh of maids, the jests of merry men, — 
 Were sounds and sights that like a dream appeared ; 
 And that it was a dream they only feared ; 
 
IRELAND. ■•:: 
 
 For Nature, soft-eyed priestess, had arrayed 
 That beauteous Island as a bridal maid, 
 And now the hour approached in blushing pride 
 That made this Eden land Phoenicia's bride. 
 
 Far in the twilight of the years gone by 
 That unsketched scenery rises on my eye ; 
 I see the wild rose piled in festoons round 
 The native Shamrock of young Erin's ground ; 
 I see the woody hills that kiss the sky 
 Topped with the gorgeous cloud of shrubbery, 
 While every sense seems burdened and oppressed 
 With fragrant flowers inviting love and rest, 
 And, underneath, the carpeting of green 
 Shames loom- wrought fabrics of the Tyrian queen, 
 So soft and deep that beauty's foot of snow 
 Left angel tracks of loveliness below. 
 
 No monster ravened in these echoing groves 
 Where warbling birds were telling all their loves, 
 Nor serpent there his spiral volumes rolled, 
 Rich with his rage in burnished scales of gold, — 
 Nor savage man, a monster deadlier still, 
 
24 IRELAND. 
 
 Was there, to mar its beauty at his will, — 
 But o'er this scene the centuries had hung, 
 While here a human voice had never rung. 
 
 Oh, Nature ! let me once, alone with thee, 
 
 Wrap my worn soul in thine own drapery — 
 
 No voices hear but thine iEolian tone, 
 
 And let me make thy olden halls my own, 
 
 For I am weary with the tongue of art, 
 
 I dread the flatterer's deceitful part, 
 
 I sigh amidst the throngs of earthly joy 
 
 Lest some dark demon should my peace destroy ; 
 
 Give me another Erin, just as when 
 
 Its voiceful groves, first trodden by glad men, 
 
 Woke echo into language, babbling wild, 
 
 The shout of man — the pleadings of a child. 
 
 A sheltering nook now moors the galleys home, 
 
 Upon the shores a gallant party roam 
 
 Intent upon a dread religious rite 
 
 To melt all eyes and stir all hearts that night, — 
 
 For low upon the west the weary sun 
 
 Reclined his head as if his toil were done, 
 
 And shadows from the mountains stretched away 
 
IRELAND. 25 
 
 In sable mourning for departed day. 
 
 But, as the curtains of the night were drawn, 
 
 There flashed upon the eye another dawn, 
 
 Thrice twenty hill tops blazed with Baal-fire piles 
 
 And far around the fragrant desert smiles 
 
 Beneath the strange, wild flames that upward curled, 
 
 In splendor bursting on the new-born world ; 
 
 Deep underneath the blazing eyes of night 
 
 Green foliage showed in beauty darkly bright, 
 
 While massive palls of blackness upward thrown 
 
 Put out the stars whose silvery glances shone 
 
 In beaming ranks on radiant night's blue zone. 
 
 Broad mountain flambeaux — roaring founts of flame! 
 
 From ancient rites your red-tongued volumes came, 
 
 When first on Askalon Baal's altars poured 
 
 The fiery symbols of the god adored 
 
 By those on Shinar's plains and those far hills 
 
 Where soft Idumea spicy myrrh distils; — 
 
 Thence borne by wanderers to the vale of Nile, 
 
 Thence to Iberia, thence to Erin's Isle. 
 
 The god of fire, with solemn chaunts of fear, 
 
 Was summoned from the blazing hill tops near, 
 
26 IRELAND. 
 
 To plant, on that green land, his molten throne ? 
 And reign the moral sovereign all alone ! 
 
 Deep silence hung upon the wilderness, 
 
 And dread, the child of gloom, with raven tress, 
 
 Glared voiceless from the arch of drooping boughs, 
 
 As panther whom the midnight hunters rouse; 
 
 Still and more void the unearthly silence grew 
 
 A spectral splendor on the weeping yew. 
 
 Old men from Palestine in terror said 
 
 The earth would tremble with the fire-god's tread, 
 
 And that no human eye could gaze upon 
 
 The steeds that urge his roaring chariot on ; 
 
 They held their breath lest scathing thunders might 
 
 On heads irreverent and graceless light. 
 
 In that dread hush, below the mountain's flame 
 
 A strain of solemn, mellow music came, 
 
 Rising and falling like the billowy sea 
 
 In waves of wild and wizzard harmony, 
 
 And soon beneath the arching boughs were seen 
 
 The serried ranks with torch-lights thick between ; 
 
 A long procession cleft the massive night ; 
 
IRELAND. 27 
 
 First, maidens came arrayed in snowy white, — 
 Then bearded priests with awful symbols crowned 
 Such as Baal Peor in Idumea owned, — 
 Then stalwart soldiers with their scaly shields 
 That erst had gleamed in Scythia's iron fields; 
 The thunder-drums were hoarse as Oby's roar, 
 The trumpets shrieked and wailed along the shore, 
 And soft recorders melted into song 
 While stormy cymbals clashed in wrath along; 
 'Twas strange to listening night, that burst of sound, 
 Filling the air with tuneful echoes round. 
 Thus swept the wild procession on, as if 
 A fiery serpent rolled from Wicklow's cliff, 
 To Hawth's dread hill around the flashing bay, 
 Upon whose waves the torch-lights seemed to play. 
 
 But once again a solemn silence fell 
 On sea and hill and deeply shaded dell — 
 A silence like that pause in human life 
 When nature yields in death's insatiate strife; 
 The gouts of flame that flaunted into heaven 
 In silence rose, by night-winds stilly driven, 
 While round an aged oak the gathered throng, 
 
28 IRELAND. 
 
 Expectant, waited for the harper's song; 
 Then swept a form along the curtained gloom 
 That rather seemed the tenant of a tomb 
 Than one whose index on time's roll-call stood 
 This side eternity's returnless flood; 
 Tall, pale, and bowed beneath a century's weight, 
 The bard had come to celebrate the fete, 
 And touch that harp heard oft in Lebanon, 
 Stirring the cedars toned by Solomon. 
 
 Oh, 'twas an olden harp, this ancient man 
 Leaned o'er and gently tuned ere he began ! 
 Wrought from the firs of Tyre its sounding frame, 
 The sea of death had drowned its maker's name ; 
 But still the living principle of song 
 Dwelt in that wood in youthful vigor strong, 
 And the first touch woke music's wildest thrill, 
 As Erin's harp of power forever will. 
 
IRELAND 29 
 
 THE BAAL-FIRE SONG. 
 
 Thou god of the flame 
 
 That burneth around, 
 I hallow thy name, 
 
 On this virgin ground : 
 From the Dead sea's wave, 
 
 And far Galilee, 
 Hastening to save, 
 
 Baal, hear me ! Baal, hear me ! 
 
 The beacon hill piles 
 
 Are flickering away, 
 While the black night smiles 
 
 With the fire-god's ray: 
 From Edom's mountains 
 
 Unwashed by the sea, 
 From the Nile's fountains, 
 
 Baal, hear me ! Baal, hear me ! 
 
 Here in this lone dell, 
 
 First pressed by the foot, 
 Thy praises now swell, 
 
30 IRELAND. 
 
 And the Baal-fires shoot : 
 From wilds that environ 
 
 Storied Damascus 
 Tadmor and Gihon, 
 
 Baal ? hear us ! Baal, hear us ! 
 
 Thy children wandering, 
 
 Have come o'er the sea ; 
 When we're sorrowing 
 
 Can we do without thee ? 
 From Babylon's walls, 
 
 The jackall's dank home, 
 From its voiceless halls, 
 
 Dread Baal, come ! dread Baal, come 
 
 Lone pilgrims of time, 
 
 We lodge here awhile, 
 From thy temple sublime, 
 
 Oh, deign us a smile : 
 From the Siroc's wings, 
 
 From Etna's red cave, 
 Where the lava springs, 
 
 Fire-God, save! Fire-God, save! 
 
IRELAND. 31 
 
 The dying harp had swept its farewell string; 
 'Twas o'er — with all its votive murmuring! 
 Then rose a shout as if the voice of seas 
 Sang thunder anthems to the frightened breeze, 
 And torches, borne by frantic hundreds, flamed 
 Through groves and thickets unexplored, unnamed; 
 A wilderness on fire could not have shone 
 Like these mad torches on the blackness thrown. 
 The Fire-God comes ! the awful Fire-God comes ! 
 Was cried by thousands midst the roll of drums; 
 The archers shot their arrows, swords were drawn, 
 And catapults hurled storms of iron on; 
 The cuirass rung, the shrieking trumpets wailed, 
 Till child and woman in their terror quailed, — 
 And still the roaring voices shouted loud 
 That Baal had come upon a burning cloud, 
 'Till, self-deceived, the wisest, sternest thought 
 They saw the demon whom the harp besought. 
 
32 IRELAND. 
 
 CANTO III. 
 
 'Twas morning. Day's red fingers gaily played, 
 With raven tresses which his bride displayed, 
 As, pillowed on his bosom, from his kiss, 
 She drank in beauty, and expired in bliss. 
 'Twas morning. From the soft and sunny sea 
 Came zephyrs on their wings of purity, 
 Which touched the cheeks of virgins still asleep, 
 And laughed to find the sentries in their keep, 
 Deep wrapped in slumber as they might have been 
 By ocean guarded, shut from danger in. 
 
 But one alone was wakeful on that morn; 
 A mighty chieftain in Phoenicia born, 
 Whose voice was law with hordes of fearless men, 
 Struggled with death, a mightier chieftain, then, 
 Sharp grew his iron face, his kingly eye 
 Wandered o'er fields of sightless vacancy, — 
 And that brave towering spirit knew full well, 
 A king must die and murmur his farewell. 
 He waked a sleeper; then a wailing rose, 
 
IRELAND. 33 
 
 From multitudes oppressed with heavy woes, 
 " Milesius dies ! the shade of death comes o'er 
 A king, a father, we may see no more, " — 
 Were sounds that shook the brooding wilderness, 
 The out-cry of a people's deep distress. 
 
 Still lofty in his dying spoke the chief 
 
 In hollow voice, with words of comfort brief, 
 
 Commanding silence while his spirit trod 
 
 The awful pathway to the Spirit God. 
 
 He called, and Heber, Ith, and Eremon, 
 
 His sons, approached with grief and sadness wan, 
 
 While to the heavens he spreads his dying hands 
 
 And leaves behind a father's last commands; 
 
 With solemn rites he makes each son a king 
 
 And gives to each an empire's signet ring, 
 
 Makes them the root of kingly power forever, 
 
 To hold their right in truth and mercy ever. 
 
 He made them raise his failing frame upright 
 
 Till he should gaze upon the orb of light ; 
 
 Just then upon his wearied senses fell 
 
 A solemn vision and a poet's spell. 
 
M IRELAND. 
 
 Far down the vale of years, he hoarsely cried, 
 
 I see the gloomy walls of Time divide ; 
 
 Ten centuries shall the son of God reveal, 
 
 Then come the prophets of Jehovah's will — 
 
 At length the fire-god's worship shall decline, 
 
 And holier altars with new radiance shine. 
 
 I see the line of kings from me descended, 
 
 Stretch down two thousand years — then darkly 
 
 ended, — 
 When sudden o'er the nation's brow shall fall 
 The clouds of woe, fair Freedom's funeral pall; 
 I look beyond eight centuries of gloom 
 O'er Erin buried in oppression's tomb, 
 'Till at her feet the oppressors bow the knee 
 And ask forgiveness for old villainy. 
 What rushing brightness bathes my country's sky 
 Like seas of radiance rolling wild and high ! 
 Nation of Kings ! my soul is with you yet, 
 Though death now wrests from me my coronet. 
 
 Then sunk Milesius with the vision fired, 
 And overcome with blessedness, expired. 
 The wives and virgins kissed his pallid clay, 
 
IRELAND. 35 
 
 The priests came near the rites of death to pay, 
 The warriors gazed upon the giant form 
 That oft had guided in the battle's storm, 
 While from the grove in bitterness there came 
 The Ullaloo that reason scarce can tame. 
 
 Above the buried king a mound was raised 
 Where the perpetual fire for ages blazed, 
 'Till, in the womb of centuries forgot, 
 They lost the sacred and time-hallowed spot 
 Where strength and royalty were left to rot — 
 But as they piled the mound a chant was sung 
 Which through the ancient groves in sadness rung. 
 
 CHANT FOR THE DEAD. 
 
 Pile the mound — pile the mound ! 
 
 Make it broad and high ; 
 Deep, deep in holy ground 
 
 Ye bury royalty; 
 Ye hush a king to rest, 
 
 While heaps of fresh earth 
 Swelling high on his breast 
 
 Bear witness to his worth. 
 
3G IRELAND 
 
 Pile the mound — pile the mound 
 
 On the great still heart, 
 While ye weep all around 
 
 That a king should depart ! 
 And the shades of the dead, 
 
 Flitting by in gloom, 
 Shall smile above his bed, 
 
 And glory in his tomb. 
 
 Pile the mound — pile the mound ! 
 
 All is silence dread, 
 And the battle's brave sound 
 
 Died away with the dead ; 
 But his ancestors' ghosts 
 
 From realms far away, 
 Gather near in pale hosts 
 
 Gazing pleased on this clay. 
 
 Pile the mound — pile the mound, 
 And then light the flame 
 
 Shedding radiance around 
 This mural throne of flame ; 
 
 And peaceful be the rest 
 
IRELAND. 37 
 
 Of king and of sire, 
 'Till at time's dread behest, 
 The years shall expire ! 
 
 A broad hiatus in the lapse of time 
 Now intervenes in this historic rhyme — 
 A channel where the waves of empire ran 
 Through centuries of peace ; and then began 
 Those stormy times when Albion's bannered host, 
 First prowlers, sprang on Erin's Emerald coast. 
 
 But ere that day, two hundred kings had borne 
 The glittering crown Milesius once had worn, 
 And lofty domes of learning rose to heaven, 
 Whence mandates to the mind alone were given ; 
 And priest and prelate, curates of the soul, 
 Taught that the Lord of hosts, with high control, 
 Ruled in the earth, as in the starry sphere, 
 To virtue kind, to stubbornness severe; 
 They spoke of dying love on Calvary, 
 And pointed sinners to the cross on high; 
 Oft times they shrived the dying, bending o'er 
 
3* IRELAND. 
 
 The brow of beauty, beautiful no more ; 
 Take with thy spirit, would the beadsman say, 
 To the far regions of eternal day, 
 The blessing borne on wing of love to thee, 
 From Christ, the fountain of soft sympathy; 
 While on the cross the Man of sorrows hung 
 No tender accents in his hearing rung, — 
 Yet there, in agony, his thoughts were kind, 
 As all thy sufferings passed before his mind, 
 And there he broke the barb of death for thee, 
 Poor dweller in the tents of misery ! 
 
 Thus cheered, the wasted eye would light again, 
 The soul mount up superior to its pain, 
 And holy triumph crown a life of woe 
 With radiance richer than the sunset's glow. 
 
 Ah, dark that fated and accursed hour, 
 When Henry threw his myrmidons of power 
 On soil then sacred from a Vandal tread, 
 And turned its living green to deepest red. 
 The chivalry of England, taught to war 
 By those who crushed the son of Hamilcar, 
 
IRELAND. 39 
 
 Broke into phalanx by the Saxon stern, 
 Knew well the tide of victory to turn, 
 And bear down masses of untutored men, 
 Falling in death to rally ne'er again. 
 
 And well the wily foe knew how to nurse 
 Those petty discords, Ireland's deadliest curse, 
 And treason, planted deep, shot up in bloom, 
 'Till Erin's sons had surfeited the tomb, — 
 Slain suddenly by bigot's secret wound — 
 Beheaded nation — portionless — uncrowned ! 
 
 The shriek of far antiquity was heard 
 When empire bid adieu — a farewell word — 
 To Munster's palace, hoary throne of time, 
 Where sat the giant kings in power sublime ; 
 The thousand harps of history were hung 
 On willows where the moaning waters sung 
 The everlasting song of utter woe, 
 By night and day, in one unending flow. 
 
 And long the thick-ribbed gloom hath curtained o'er 
 That land so bright with genial flame before, 
 
40 IRELAND. 
 
 And oft the fruitless struggles made to break 
 The sleep from which the brave cannot awake. 
 Take one example from the weeping page, 
 How patriots dared the haughty tyrant's rage — 
 One picture hung in Tarah's mournful hall, 
 Of virtue's struggle and of freedom's fall, — 
 This will suffice to probe the fount of tears, 
 Gushing from Erin's eyes through sorrowing years ! 
 
IRELAND. 41 
 
 CANTO IV. 
 
 The morning broke in splendor o'er that Isle 
 Where nature blooms in one perennial smile $ 
 Sweet Erin ! Emerald queen of ocean's wave, 
 Home of the warm, benevolent and brave — 
 Of one green vale upon thy sainted breast 
 I sing. How calm that morn was nature's rest, 
 As though no storms had ever ruffled by, 
 To mar the beauty of its scenery. 
 You might not on a finer picture look, 
 Diversified with hill, and vale and brook ; 
 Oh, 'tis a fairy vale, all dotted o'er, 
 With story, breathing history's wildest lore ! 
 The white-haired men of other days yet tell 
 What valiant spirits on its greensward fell, 
 A thousand reminiscencies are found 
 Like jewels, scattered on this ancient ground ; 
 The trees are voiceful, every mound can make 
 
42 IRELAND. 
 
 Some tale of yore, while silver stream and lake 
 In gently flowing tender strains impart, 
 The requiem of sorrow to the heart. 
 
 Within that vale an aged abbey stood, 
 Surrounded by a thick, embowering wood, 
 Its lofty towers rose frowning, dark and grey, 
 Throwing long shadows on the noon of day ; 
 The battlemented walls were ivied o'er 
 With foliage blooming as in days of yore,— 
 Like age and youth in wedded love embraced ; 
 Such pensile outlines had the painter traced 
 About that desert pile, it well might seem 
 Like the soft drapery of a blissful dream, 
 From fancy's wizzard realm at midnight brought 
 By coursers rushing on the wings of thought. 
 
 Tomb-like the abbey stood, o'ergrown with moss 
 
 Surmounted by a rudely sculptured cross, 
 
 And here and there a graven image lay 
 
 Defaced upon the tessellated way, 
 
 Where once the lordly churchmen, crowned with state, 
 
 Displayed their power — now changed, but such is fate ! 
 
IRELAND. 43 
 
 The tooth of years, the winter's scourge, the grave, 
 
 Man's guilty passions, time's devouring wave, 
 
 Have done the work of sullen vengeance there, 
 
 Changing a palace to a savage lair — 
 
 A relic hoar, and grim and solitary 
 
 Of the stern men that lived in years gone by. 
 
 The morning smiled upon its walls, as though 
 It were still merry in its courts below, 
 As in the palmy days of grandeur past, 
 Which rose too bright, too beautiful to last; — 
 Or, when the royal troops, in one dark hour, 
 Flung the red blood upon its aged tower. 
 So still and calm the scene, it would not seem, 
 That discord, fire, and blood, and falchion-gleam, 
 Had e'er disturbed the quiet of its breast — 
 Sweet vale ! So placid now, and once so blest. 
 
 But anarchy had lit her torches there, 
 
 Men sternly stalked abroad with looks of care, 
 
 Whisperings of discontent were heard to rise 
 
 From cot and field : premonitory sighs 
 
 Of coming wrath ; rebellion's hydra head 
 
44 IRELAND. 
 
 At length was raised ; and through the country spread 
 
 Like lightning's flame the tidings far and wide, 
 
 Rousing the nation's chivalry and pride ; 
 
 In sudden impulse rose the patriot foe 
 
 Armed and prepared to strike the long-feared blow. 
 
 A shady grove, embosomed in that vale, 
 
 Spread its tall branches to the stirring gale; 
 
 Beneath its broad, umbrageous arms away, 
 
 Deep ravines yawned, unvisited by day ; 
 
 While nature, near the Abbey, had arrayed 
 
 A bulwark of the mountain bases made, 
 
 Thrown sternly up to dare the face of pride, 
 
 While, to the left, there swept an angry tide; — 
 
 Apart from each, a greensward gaily spread, 
 
 Covered with daises to the river's bed. 
 
 A fairy queen might there have built her bowers, 
 
 So sweetly bursting with rich fruits and flowers ; 
 
 Primroses fair, the hawthorn's crown of snow, 
 
 The wild rose with the honeysuckle's blow, 
 
 Twined into gorgeous wreaths, hung festooned round, 
 
 In union sweet, o'erarching all the ground. 
 
IRELAND. |f 
 
 And there the patriot chieftains held brief word, 
 Their thoughts with coming dangers, deeply stirred, — 
 For shadows of the future reaching back 
 Discovered gloom and doubt on glory's track ; — 
 Long had they planned the enterprise that now 
 Kindled each heart, and flashed from brow to brow; 
 Goaded by tithes and hungry placemen's fees, 
 Tyrannic usages and cruelties, 
 They take the last resort of stern appeal 
 In arguments sent home by naked steel. 
 
 The summons to that gathering were given 
 At dawn of day, and ere the gloom of even, 
 A multitude had come — determined men, 
 From distant countries, mountain, hill and glen. 
 
 Oh, Erin! thy deep soil is red with blood 
 That calls for vengeance from the throne of God — 
 The blood of men thy godless rulers slew, 
 When, flushed with victory, they dared to do 
 The deeds of horror that have rent thy heart 
 And torn the bonds of union far apart. 
 
46 IRELAND. 
 
 What though thy empress sister lauds thee still,- 
 Yet art thou but the creature of her will ; 
 Most royally, she chains thy children down 
 To deck her triumphs and support her crown. 
 No murmurs must escape thy lip, no thought 
 Go forth in search of freedom's happier lot; 
 Alas, for thee ! yet heaven propitious hears 
 The captive's groans, and wipes away his tears ; 
 Justice ere long shall rise, thy chains shall fall, 
 And thou shalt wear thine own green coronal. 
 
 There flamed that night upon the river's banks, 
 The signal fires, displaying armed ranks, 
 And groups of fierce and wildly rugged forms, 
 The nurselings of a thousand mountain storms, 
 Men of Herculean make, and eye of fire, 
 Son, brother, husband, and the aged sire ; 
 Coarse their apparel, in hot haste put on, 
 Lest others first to fields of war had gone ; 
 The scythe, and pickaxe, rusty gun and pike 
 To these rude peasants seemed in use alike; 
 But here and there were some who stood apart 
 In green and gold arrayed — and high in heart. 
 
IRELAND. 17 
 
 Amid the throng a haughty brow was known, 
 
 Young ****** 5 w ho had scarce to manhood grown, 
 
 Last scion of a princely house of yore, 
 
 That ne'er shall furnish kings or princes more, 
 
 And long and dreary waves the yellow fern 
 
 O'er pomp and splendor never to return, — 
 
 With many others of as high a line 
 
 Burning with ardor in a cause divine, 
 
 A cause embalmed in freedom's holiest shrine. 
 
 Long years they bore the galling yoke unmoved, 
 
 In secret mourned the land they dearly loved, 
 
 But now the muttering thunders growled below 
 
 The mountains of a buried nation's woe, 
 
 As Etna, groaning in its frightful chasms, 
 
 Sways to and fro with rude internal spasms, 
 
 Then voices forth its huge, unearthly roar, 
 
 That startles heaven and bursts upon the shore, 
 
 While deep beneath the clefted rocks appear 
 
 The crimson torrents rolling high and clear, 
 
 The heart-blood of the mountain, spouting up 
 
 To overflow, in wrath, destruction's cup : 
 
 Thus these brave men first muttered, deep and dread y 
 
48 IRELAND. 
 
 The warnings of the sorely injured, 
 
 Then rolled a war-shout, like the roar of thunder,, 
 
 Bursting the bonds of civic life asunder ; 
 
 Then gleamed the steel, as the volcano's eye, 
 
 Drawn sternly now for death or victory. 
 
 Hark! from the hills a bugle-horn resounds — 
 A single horseman from the thicket bounds : 
 Soldiers! he cries, the foe is near — the foe 
 Is sweeping onward through the vale below; 
 Scarce distant twenty miles, they come ! they come ! 
 Sound to the gathering, trumpet, fife and drum ! 
 
 Loud was the tumult — brief the orders given, — 
 While darker grew the blackening brow of heaven -, 
 No breezes through the groves passed whispering by r 
 Nor breathed an echoing voice, nor heaved a sigh, 
 Through nature's realm a solemn stillness crept 
 As if the spirits of the air had slept. 
 
 The patriot army, gathered sternly now, 
 
 Hung breathless, gazing on their chieftain's brow 9 
 
 To borrow confidence from that dark eye, 
 
IRELAND. 49 
 
 And glean the presage of a victory. 
 
 Hear now, said he, your country's clanking chains, 
 
 It is a tender mother's voice complains, 
 
 The iron in her soul hath entered deep, 
 
 Nor hath she left a single tear to weep ; 
 
 Come on! the hour of trial dimly shines, 
 
 The inky heaven above in gloom combines, 
 
 To give an omen, in that fearful frown 
 
 Of storms of wrath that soon shall hurtle down. 
 
 United let us stand in life — in death 
 
 United yield to heaven our parting breath ; 
 
 Our lifeless clay shall show the deathless hate 
 
 We bore to tyrants, as we bowed to fate ; 
 
 But — strike! the wings of centuries draw near 
 
 To hide the work of vengeance and of fear ; 
 
 Each groan you draw from tyranny's dark breast 
 
 Shall give some troubled patriot-spirit rest ; 
 
 And glory's hills shall rally back the shout, 
 
 Sent up in triumph from the foeman's rout ! 
 
 He paused — then broke upon his ear a roar 
 
 As many waters tumbling on the shore ; 
 
 The captains on their pawing chargers sprang, 
 
50 IRELAND. 
 
 The spear and broadsword gave a hungry clang, 
 While the stern ranks in wrathful motion rolled 
 As tossing waves by angry winds controlled. 
 
 Obedient to command, the patriots moved 
 
 To save the shrines and gentle homes they loved ; 
 
 They hurried o'er the gloomy hills afar 
 
 To meet — and break — the iron front of war. 
 
 The winds swept whistling through the deep brown 
 
 wood, 
 The beasts within their lair in terror stood, 
 The feathered songsters to their shelters clung, 
 As the storm trumpets through the welkin rung ; 
 Upon the sky the cloudy banners waved, 
 While heaven and earth in maddening discord raved, 
 The lurid lightnings flashed, the thunders pealed, 
 And moss-grown oaks before the tempest reeled. 
 Old men who looked abroad that fearful night 
 Now inky black — now bathed in floods of light, — 
 Spoke solemnly of tyranny's dread doom, 
 Almighty freedom waking from her tomb ; 
 The bursting of the thunder-clouds of heaven 
 
IRELAND. 51 
 
 They thought the signs of glorious victory given, 
 And, as their trembling arms on high they tossed, 
 They knelt in prayer for that devoted host. 
 
 Stealthily along the patriot army crept 
 
 Through the dim forest where the tempest swept 
 
 With strange forboding thoughts that came and went 
 
 Like meteors with prophetic darkness blent ; 
 
 The craven-hearted and irresolute 
 
 Were now, amidst the tempest, cold and mute, 
 
 They feared the elemental shout of war, 
 
 And watched the brazen chariots from afar, 
 
 Lest the dark spirits of the air should be 
 
 Signs of defeat — and not of victory. 
 
 But in that thronging multitude were men, 
 
 Reckless of tyrants' curse or benison, 
 
 Whose bosoms swelled with mighty thirst to bring 
 
 The balm of freedom to the sorrowing ; 
 
 No voicings from the elements had power 
 
 To stay their ardor in that trying hour, 
 
 With forms erect, their souls on fire, they pressed 
 
 To battle, — 'twas their country's high behest! 
 
52 IRELAND. 
 
 But ah ! how few among that motley host 
 Could make such noble principles their boast ! 
 Had but one heart and soul inspired the band 
 The light of hope had dawned upon the land, 
 Her bosom then, expanded, warm and free, 
 Had been the cherished home of liberty — 
 A diadem upon her head had been 
 Beautiful Erin ! ocean's Emerald Queen. 
 
 Upon the summit of a lonely hill, 
 
 When muttering thunders ceased and winds were still, 
 
 A gentle murmur reached the listening ear, 
 
 And in that sound were words so fond and dear 
 
 You would not dream that tones as soft and sweet 
 
 Could on that solitary hill-top meet. 
 
 But, sheltered in a deep romantic wood, 
 
 Upon its brow a tiny cottage stood, 
 
 Beneath its humble roof there dwelt a maid, 
 
 In all the artlessness of truth arrayed — 
 
 The long-betrothed of ****** — hapless boy! 
 
 Made his forever by the marriage joy — 
 
 Now clashing arms his new-born hopes destroy, 
 
 For scarce upon their bowing heads had come 
 
IRELAND. 53 
 
 The sacred rite, ere beat the troubled drum 
 That summoned ****** from his Eden bower 
 Where bloomed in loveliness his passion flower; — 
 Yet from his troop that night in haste he came 
 To whisper Mary's sweet enchanting name, 
 And with his greeting he had fondly given 
 The token hallowed by approving heaven. 
 But oh! the time is short — a bugle rings, 
 And closer to his side the fond one clings, 
 While sorrow, like a raven of the night, 
 Flapped its broad wings her rising joy to blight. 
 Storm had been on the mountains — but its winds 
 Were but the emblems of their tossing minds 
 Alternate swayed by hopes and boding fears, 
 Brief sunshine overcast with clouds and tears, 
 As, sobbing on the bosom of the chief, 
 She loosed the fountains of her sacred grief. 
 
 They part in tears — a lingering look — one more ! 
 And all the world seems darker than before ; 
 Farewell ! that word in tones prophetic fell 
 Upon each heart, more like a funeral knell 
 Than parting benison, the fond adieu, 
 That promises return and pleasures new. 
 
54 IRELAND. 
 
 Sweet rose of beauty ! fair as summer's morn, 
 When crimson hues of light the skies adorn ; 
 Kind as the dew that falls on vine-clad hills, 
 When every flower its cup of nectar fills ! 
 Pride of the vale — thine eye is downcast now, 
 A shadow flits across thy Parian brow, 
 Thy heart is with thy loving soldier gone 
 And in thy bower thou droopest sad and wan, 
 But beautiful and sweet in loneliness, 
 As a pale star on evening's raven tress. 
 
 The pulse of war that beats in manhood's vein 
 In woman's blood is but a throb of pain ; 
 She hears in the loud clarion's cry aghast 
 The shriek of murder keen upon the blast ; 
 From scenes of strife in tears she turns away, 
 Yet soon returns the dying form to stay; — 
 So Mary, thrilled with anguish, long had seen, 
 In dreams disturbed, the falchion's lightning sheen • 
 But, ah ! her gentle virtues had no power 
 To rule the tumult of the factious hour, 
 Or save from the dark rolling sea of blood 
 That swept o'er Erin with its boiling flood, 
 
\ 
 
 IRELAND. 55 
 
 One dearer far than heaven's most blessed light 
 King of her heart — the crown of her delight! 
 
 Oh love ! thy power is felt by serf and free, 
 
 This earth would be a desert but for thee ; 
 
 The ruffled brow of care thy hand can smoothe, 
 
 And man's worst passions with thy sweetness soothe ; 
 
 From thy soft galaxy all clouds depart, 
 
 Thou healer of the sad and sick at heart ! 
 
 In thy glad eye a living radiance burns 
 
 As incense flashes in the fragrant urns; 
 
 But yet the seeds of life are sown in death, 
 
 So sorrow intertwines thy rosy wreath, 
 
 And those who love thee most, most deeply may 
 
 Lament the fate that rent the loved away. 
 
 Through morass deep, and glen, and broken land, 
 That night held on their course the patriot band, 
 Crushing the thorns and tangled shrubbery wild, 
 The dreary produce of a land despoiled ; 
 But the harsh voice of brawling torrents spoke, 
 And on the ear of darkness rudely broke — 
 The trumpetings of nature meant to cheer 
 
56 IRELAND. 
 
 The hearts that struggled still with hope and fear, 
 While, overhead, the thunder rack still hung, 
 Still through the trees the storm-winds shrilly sung, 
 Still hid the stars their gentle eyes of flame, 
 Still the red lightnings, glaring, went and came, 
 And the fierce host oft blest the boon of heaven 
 For fearful torch-light in such blackness given. 
 
 Once more the dawn ! its penciled twilight played 
 On a far hill with England's power arrayed, 
 While on a plain, a turbid stream between, 
 The wearied sons of Erin might be seen, 
 With either wing obscured by fern and wood 
 As the firm centre in full prospect stood ; 
 The flag of green was dallying with the gale, 
 While trumpet answered trumpet — shout and hail 
 Came taunting in the winds across the water 
 With mingled shrieks of boding birds of slaughter. 
 
IRELAND. 57 
 
 CANTO V. 
 
 On Erin's sainted isle what hand shall dare 
 To rear the flag of freedom high in air — 
 Or light again on altar-stones the blaze 
 That shed deep lustre on her better days ? 
 What master mind shall rend the chains apart 
 Whose iron links are chill upon her heart ? 
 Who from the rampant lion shall reclaim 
 The fields still voiceful with high deeds of fame ? 
 Not those whose vampyre appetites deplete 
 Their father-land, now prostrate at their feet, 
 The absentees from hearth, and hallowed shrines, 
 Dissolving Erin's pearls in Tuscan wines — 
 Base renegades who blush to own the soil 
 Which greedy tyranny has made their spoil — 
 Not they ! the outcasts of insulted home, 
 Bearing the brand of Cain where'er they roam; 
 Grey, pampered minions, parasites abroad, 
 
58 IRELAND. 
 
 Alike abhorred by nature and its God — 
 
 Consumers of the bread the laborers need, 
 
 Who starve that glutted revelry may feed, 
 
 The thunder-bolt of wrath would scorn to crush 
 
 Such moral traitors in its fiery rush ! 
 
 Live they — blood-suckers, bloated, overgrown, 
 
 'Till lazy infamy shall claim its own ! 
 
 The blessed earth where serpents dare not spawn 
 
 Lends not a turf to pile their graves upon. 
 
 Alas ! the efforts never can avail, 
 Put forth by trembling hands that can but fail; 
 Too strong have perfidy and fraud entwined 
 The galling bonds to loosen in the wind ; 
 Divided counsels only feebly shake 
 And strengthen what they cannot break. 
 First plant the tree of union — let its root 
 Deep in the ancient soil of freedom shoot ; 
 Let bigotry, abashed, awhile recede, 
 'Till arms are nerved to do a noble deed; 
 Let clanish feuds be buried on the shore 
 To rankle in the high of heart no more, — 
 Then — speak in thunder — Erin! of thy wrong, 
 
IRELAND. 59 
 
 Challenge the world, in mighty suffering strong, 
 Take suffrage of the centuries — summon Time, 
 To say if in his path of years sublime, 
 He e'er hath seen a sorrow like thine own 
 Borne with hushed breath — almost without a groan — 
 Call on the watchers in the midnight blue, 
 If, in the circle of their boundless view, 
 So dark a history of oppression frowned, 
 As sheds on Ireland's page a gloom profound ! 
 Then, in a prayer of dread and last appeal, 
 Implore the Lord of Hosts to bless the steel, 
 Even if its edge the dark-souled tyrants feel ! 
 
 Land of my sires ! thy willows bending deep 
 Blend with the waters as they pensive sweep 
 To throw themselves on ocean's placid breast, 
 Lulled by the sea song as a babe at rest. 
 Land of my sires ! the hungry tooth of years 
 Hath gnawed the channel for a flood of tears 
 Engraved upon the face of hill and plain 
 That one day shall be blotted out again. 
 Thy energies are chartered — drawn away 
 To swell the proud of England's court array, 
 
60 IRELAND 
 
 To prop another throne, support a crown 
 That crushes all thy mighty genius down, — 
 To wake the wildest music far from home, 
 As, cheerless, thy unpensioned harpers roam, 
 Compelled by penury to touch the wires 
 In foreign courts, far from their own hearth-fires. 
 
 To stranger lands thy high-born sons have fled 
 
 To freedom bonded and to honor wed, 
 
 Their keen blades flashing through each battle smoke 
 
 Where bravery leagues against the tyrant's yoke — 
 
 Alas ! that e'er thy recreant sons are found 
 
 Champions of wrong, upheld, on foreign ground, 
 
 By Irish talent with its bosom bare 
 
 The victory to win — or death to share ! 
 
 Rouse — rouse thee glorious Isle ! the eagle's eye 
 
 Not keener flashes through immensity, 
 
 Than thy red glance of wrath on perfidy : 
 
 Volcanic spasms have rent thy gems apart, 
 
 Yet still they glitter in each Irish heart, — 
 
 Ah, who would crouch beneath a tyrant's rod, 
 
 Forgetful of his birthright and his God ? 
 
 Kissing the earth where titled Vandals tread 
 
IRELAND. 01 
 
 To earn by baseness his unhallowed bread ? 
 
 Not he who ever felt his proud blood stir 
 
 At war-song of the gallant Troubadour, 
 
 Or felt the longings of his heart's unrest 
 
 To see his own his native country blest. 
 
 While one sweet spot of earth hath freedom there 
 
 Oh let me to its sacred fanes repair 
 
 And on its altars vow through life to be 
 
 The friend of man — of God — of liberty! 
 
 Morning was on the hills — the storm was o'er, 
 It died away as storms had died before, 
 A dusky glow was melting into light 
 And bathing gently every mountain height, 
 So beautiful ! and then a flood of gold 
 Upon the vexed and feverish welkin rolled, 
 Braiding the tress of morn most radiantly, 
 Dotting the azure of her panoply. 
 Low whispering zephyrs stirred the sunny air, 
 Nature's green robe shone out surpassing fair, 
 Each element had sunk to peaceful rest, 
 Still, as an infant on its mother's breast, — 
 Yet the mild bosom of that morning held 
 
62 IRELAND. 
 
 A fiercer storm than ever madly yelled 
 From cloud to hill and back to cloud again, 
 The bellowings of nature's tortured pain. 
 There is no thunder in the realms of air 
 That may with the red cannon's voice compare, 
 Nor yet the cloud that hides the whirlwind's path 
 Such chilling gloom as shroud of battle hath, 
 Nor burns more lurid to the eye of fright 
 The lightning than the rocket's arching light, 
 Describing, o'er the sulphur hills of gloom, 
 A hopeless rainbow, planted in the tomb. 
 
 Most gorgeous war ! thy flaunting banners play 
 
 So gently on the breeze that lulls away, 
 
 And thy brave music so enchants the ear 
 
 That one might think the seraph choirs were near ; 
 
 But thy bright battle blades in hell were forged 
 
 By demon fire with hate and vengeance gorged, 
 
 In their blue sheen thy eye of murder sees 
 
 Depicted, wounds and dying agonies, 
 
 And death starts back appalled, when thy deep howl 
 
 Curdles the blood with terror's lion-growl. 
 
IRELAND. G3 
 
 Fiercer than nature's ruin, art thou, war ! 
 
 When wades, through clouds of blood, thy baleful 
 
 star ! 
 The earthquake giant, wrestling far below 
 The Andes' summits of eternal snow, — 
 The genius of the ocean, when he shakes 
 His storm-fed trident in the boiling lakes, — 
 The clouds, when ancient thunders wake from sleep, 
 And on the vapor mountains furious leap, — 
 The deep volcano, where the central fire 
 Spouts up through rifted chasms with wrathful ire — 
 The rushing whirlwind in its lightning sweep, 
 Waking the vallies from their placid sleep, — 
 Tornado, Simoom, scorching flame and flood, — 
 Thirst not for life, or limb, or human blood; 
 There is a mercy, too, that stays their course, 
 Calming the tumult in its giant force. 
 Smoothing the raging elements to rest 
 Imprinting peace on nature's rufiled breast. 
 There is a power above them smiling down 
 In silver sweetness through their darkest frown ; 
 No voice dare say 'twas bitter hate that sped 
 The arrow to the bosom of the dead, 
 
64 IRELAND. 
 
 Or marred the beauty of a cot or field, 
 Or smiling landscape with the lightning peeled ; 
 For, on the very cloud that gloomed above, 
 God hangs the rainbow of his ceaseless love, 
 And on the crest of ocean, buoyant rides 
 A spirit which shall calm its angriest tides, 
 The tempest rack destroys the seeds of death, 
 And fills the sunny air with rosy breath. 
 
 Thy throne is built of bones —all mildewed o'er — 
 That ne'er shall move in death's grim dances more ■ 
 Pale relics, bleached in wintry winds and showers, 
 Now piled on high like monumental towers, 
 Crowned with the halo of the battle flame, 
 At once man's glory, and his deepest shame : — 
 Thou art the Molock of the olden time, 
 God of the war-cry — horribly sublime — 
 Which stirs the thick blood in the sluggish veins, 
 And lures earth's millions to the ensanguined plains 
 To leave their headless trunks to fester there, 
 That heroes may the wreath of honor wear, 
 And maddened thousands laud the glorious day, 
 Which swept the brightest and the best away. 
 
IRELAND 65 
 
 Oh, cursed war ! Widows and mothers shed 
 Their choicest tears upon their midnight bed — 
 And orphans shriek at every victory, 
 Though drowned their cry in loud artillery. 
 Well may ye shout who live — the dead are still — 
 Cold sleepers on the scathed and bloody hill — 
 But every shout ye raise comes backs again, 
 From sorrowing homes, the cry of hopeless pain ; 
 'Tis not in honor's gift to lend new life 
 To those who fell in battle's stormy strife, 
 Or soothe one pang in the bereaved heart 
 Still wedded to the dead — no more to part! 
 
 Hark ! on the ear the noise of battle breaks, 
 And echo's shout in the dark ravine wakes ; 
 The tread of thousands shakes the solid ground, 
 While light arms pour their rattling peals around — 
 Then — in the deep and solemn voice of fear, 
 The cannon thundered from the hill-tops near, 
 And the white smoke rolled like a seething sea 
 O'er the sad fields of death and misery ; 
 Beneath its cloud the bloody war scythe swung, 
 And ranks of men the mowers rudely flung, 
 
06 IRELAND. 
 
 Like grass cut down in harvest— strown along 
 In furious haste by arms in vengeance strong — 
 But louder swelled the thunder— trumpets brayed 
 'Till the bold mountain chiefs were half afraid 
 That more than mortal voices shouted loud 
 In that wild atmosphere of battle cloud, 
 Which only parted as the flash of steel, 
 Or blaze of cannon made the stoutest reel; 
 Sounds of rough strife and pain were mingled there 
 Torturing the ear with shrieks of wan despair. 
 
 At length, beneath the cloud, the armies met, 
 Scythe crossed the sword, and pike the bayonet; 
 St. George's cross now met the banner green 
 Without a link of brotherhood between. 
 The drum was hushed— the cannon's thundering roar 
 Was still — the hoarse loud trumpets wailed no more, 
 While slaughter, foot to foot, and hand to hand, 
 Deluged with blood that green, that fated land. 
 
 How fared dear Erin in that bloody hour, 
 When her brave sons had dared the lion's power, 
 And shook the dew-drops from his shaggy mane, 
 That turned to blood and fell like dashing rain ? 
 
IRELAND. 67 
 
 How fared poor Erin as her children bowed 
 M In prayer and battle " underneath that cloud ? 
 My tears would tell, as fast and thick they flow 
 O'er Erin's grandeur and her strength laid low. 
 
 The chivalry of England's haughty crown 
 
 Like a cold Alpine avalanche came down, 
 
 Sweeping the patriot army on and on 
 
 'Till light from heaven's broad firmament had gone — 
 
 O'er hill, through vale and thicket, bog and glen, 
 
 Pursuing still — nor pausing even when 
 
 The chill black midnight spread its vulture wing 
 
 O'er dreadful forms of death and suffering. 
 
 Towards the Emerald flag, now prostrate there, 
 A thousand hearts were lifted up in prayer; 
 But, ah, the curse entailed on Ireland threw 
 Across its green a shade of spectral hue — 
 A secret, dark misguiding had sustained 
 The torch of discord as the battle waned, 
 And what was bare defeat became a rout, 
 Disordered more by every triumph shout, 
 In rude hurrahs pealed on the coursing wind 
 Sent after those who dared not look behind. 
 
68 TRELAND. 
 
 That morn the Irish chiefs gave brief command 
 That all in close array should firmly stand, 
 Waiting the onset of the royal foe, 
 To give him gun for gun and blow for blow. 
 But all in vain, they rushed with frantic hate 
 On English spears, in masses separate, 
 Disorderly and wild, nor knew nor cared 
 How others battled or their comrades fared. 
 Oh wretched men! the bubble hope hath burst, 
 The better wished for hath become the worst; 
 On every tree there seems to swing a cord, 
 The brave man's horror and the rogue's reward. 
 
 But who can blame them ! cannot ages crush 
 The free-born spirit in its eagle rush ? 
 The fathers, ground for centuries in the dust, 
 Leave for their sons the scant paternal crust, 
 And galley slaves that pull the hopeless oar 
 Not harder toss the waves upon the shore 
 Than those inheritors of wrong, compelled, 
 Dig the worn soil their wretched fathers held.— 
 No dungeon prisoner in his damp deep cell 
 Can sorrows of a type more dreary tell. 
 
IRELAND. 69 
 
 The millions that just breathe upon the soil, 
 Worn out with penury and want and toil, 
 Bereft of hope, in rags sink down and die 
 Joyless and hopeless in their misery ; 
 Their little all to heartless titheman given 
 Their wretched children by misfortune driven, 
 The footsteps of their murdered parents tread, 
 And o'er the land in shoals of rapine spread. 
 
7& IRELAND. 
 
 CANTO VI. 
 
 The light was fading in the crimson west, 
 Tipping with gold the hoary mountain's crest— 
 Long shadows fell on glade and hill and glen, 
 Soft silence reigned within the haunts of men, 
 The weary bird had folded up its wing, 
 The bee within its cell was slumbering, 
 The busy hum of day had sunk to rest, 
 And scarce a sound was on the valley's breast. 
 
 Beneath a shaggy rock, that shelved away 
 
 And formed a frightful cave, still lingered day. 
 
 Upon an uptorn oak that lay across 
 
 Its caverned mouth, amidst the tangled moss, 
 
 Pale ****** sat 3 a solitary man, 
 
 While from his wounds in streams of crimson ran 
 
 The idle blood, almost too faint to flow, 
 
 And stain the rill that murmured soft below. 
 
IRELAND. 71 
 
 With scorn his lip was curled, and in his eye, 
 
 There shot swift rays of fire in flashes by ; 
 
 His features, sculptured into fierceness, seemed 
 
 As if he were in sleep, and inly dreamed 
 
 Of some dark tale, or sudden battle shock — 
 
 And now and then he gazed upon the rock 
 
 That hung above his head — then shuddering, sighed, 
 
 As if his very heart within him died ; 
 
 And yet, across his noble forehead played 
 
 A light, as if some ray of hope essayed 
 
 To pierce the cloud that gathered darkly there, 
 
 The first dim shadow of his heart's despair ; 
 
 But vainly was his expectation fired — 
 
 Light played a moment, and as soon expired. 
 
 Alas ! his thoughts were thunder-bolts to him ; 
 
 The fires of liberty were burning dim; 
 
 The loss of friends, of home, of kindred dear, 
 
 The woes of one sweet angel lingering near, 
 
 A jail — the fetters and tall gallows tree 
 
 Were links close woven in his destiny. 
 
 A cry upon his ear — and lo ! his bride, 
 With long dishevelled hair, is at his side — 
 
72 IRELAND. 
 
 Her garments torn, her features wildly wan ; 
 With bleeding heart she clasped the weary man; 
 Within each other's arms in that dark cell 
 They mingled words that none may know or tell. 
 With cheering kisses Mary chafed his brow 
 Which softened into thoughts of rapture now — 
 For woman in the trying hour is strong, 
 And firmer in her strength than man — each wrong 
 But nerves her weakness, fortifies her soul 
 To deeds of daring that may force control; 
 The moral power is hers to rise, not fall, 
 When ills oppress and life is full of gall; 
 In stormy battle ****** was a chief, 
 But now was woman's hour to give relief. 
 
 Saved from the jaws of battle, love, she said, 
 Nor numbered yet among the voiceless dead, 
 What care I for the withered wreath of fame 
 That curled to ashes in the battle flame ? 
 What care I for the crowns now lost now won 
 By Greek or Roman, Frank or fiery Hun, 
 If, but my king, as now, I fondly press 
 To my lone bosom in a wilderness ? 
 
IRELAND. 73 
 
 Let a just heaven but shield my love as late 
 
 In battle agony, what care for fate 
 
 Shall ever stir my heart to woman's fears, 
 
 Or break the seal upon my fount of tears? 
 
 Let but his love, Thou God of love, be mine, 
 
 Let me but like a wedded tendril twine 
 
 Around his manly form, unscathed as now, 
 
 And let me ever kiss his gentle brow, — 
 
 I ask no dower from fortune's golden store — 
 
 My husband safe — and mine — I seek no more ! 
 
 Oh woman ! truth and passion rear the throne 
 Where thou dost sit triumphant and alone ; 
 Bright shapes of fitful fancies throw 
 Prismatic colors o'er thy beauty's glow — 
 Before a thousand shrines thy feelings burn 
 As vestals wave their tapers o'er the urn, 
 A seeming fickle nature oft imbues 
 The color of thy mind with rainbow hues,-— 
 Yet when awakened to some daring deed, 
 When grief and trials come, or nations bleed, 
 When fields of blood re-echo shrieking cries, 
 
 10 
 
74 IRELAND. 
 
 And hope's lone star hath left the shrouded skies,— 
 'Tis then thy mighty heart shall fully prove, 
 The strength of all thy constancy and love. 
 
 Who longest lingers at the bed of death, 
 With kisses winning back the fleeting breath ? 
 Who longest at the chill lone tomb shall stay 
 Pale sentinel o'er cold and paler clay ? 
 " Last at the cross and earliest at the grave, " 
 Oh, woman ! 'tis thy chosen hour to save 
 When manhood's haughty crest is fallen low, 
 Shattered and broken by the stunning blow ! 
 
 Before the morning with its wings of light 
 Had brushed away the shadows of the night, 
 Young ****** with his trembling bride had fled, 
 And taken shelter with the sheeted dead 
 Inclosed within the abbey's eastern wing, 
 Remote, below the chapel slumbering. 
 Directed thither by a long tried friend, 
 They waited patient for the storm to spend. 
 A gloomy home was this for lovely bride 
 Whose beauteous form had been Avoca's pride, — 
 
IRELAND. 75 
 
 Yet hers was not a loveliness to fade 
 Within the sepulchre's unearthly shade ; 
 'Twas hers to soothe with melting balmy phrase 
 The chieftain who had hoped for better days — 
 Calm as a child he drank her honied tone 
 Nor wished a monarch's happiness his own; — 
 But still the sigh would often heave his breast 
 That earth refused his bride a fitting rest, 
 And doomed her in the vaults of death to dwell, 
 Who would, in halls of pride, have figured well. 
 
 Ah, was there yet another unsped shaft 
 
 In fate's relentless quiver still to waft ? 
 
 And must the grave's deep caverns, lone and chill, 
 
 Be subject to a bloody tyrant's will, 
 
 No longer the dull, echoless retreat 
 
 Where passion's maddening pulse forgot to beat ? 
 
 Another pang — it was the last — drew near 
 
 To end at once their agonizing fear. 
 
 Sometimes they heard a whisper in the wind 
 
 That no armed bands their dread abode could find — 
 
 They hoped they might escape impending gloom 
 
76 IRELAND. 
 
 Within that long-forgotten ancient tomb ; 
 But heaven itself were scarce secure from those 
 Whose bigot fury from proscription flows — 
 Blood tasters for the throne ! a vampyre swarm 
 That fatten only on the life streams warm, 
 And glory more in shrieks and tortures wild 
 Than ever mother in her babbling child. 
 
 In hearts like these no pulse of mercy beats, 
 Or throb of sympathy its kindred greets ; 
 Those sterile bosoms thrive with hateful weeds 
 That ranker grow as holy virtue bleeds; 
 And fury sweeps its sounding hurricane 
 Across such moral deserts — all in vain. 
 No crushed and bleeding floweret rises up 
 To fill with dew its siroc-blasted cup, 
 Along the path the scourge and spoiler trod 
 Imprinting vengeance on the shattered sod. 
 
 Such was the wolfish crew whose scent for blood 
 Was keen upon the river's whirling flood, 
 Where its dark waters leap, and, like a dream, 
 Show tower and buttress in the glassy stream — 
 
IRELAND. 77 
 
 Nor shall the abbey's consecrated vault 
 
 Be longer safe from furious assault ; 
 
 They seek the living where the dead should lie 
 
 Shrouded in death's appaling mystery. 
 
 The midnight guards their watchful vigils kept, 
 And all was still, while groups of soldiers slept — 
 You could not hear a sound, save now and then, 
 The footfall of the weary, watching men. 
 As dawn approached, the rattling drum awoke 
 The frighted echo with each dubious stroke — 
 Then shouted madness — laugh and scathing scorn — 
 Fit prelude to the fearful work of morn — 
 Red flambeaux glared along those olden walls, 
 Searching the secrets of the storied halls, 
 Till not a nook was left, but that deep tomb, 
 Where love and Mary sanctified the gloom. 
 
 Down through the sounding corridors of death 
 Came sounds of warning borne on hurried breath, 
 And well they knew, the fondly faithful pair, 
 The vengeance howling in the upper air. 
 They bent in prayer before their Father's throne, 
 
TS IRELAND. 
 
 That sorrowing couple, with their God alone — 
 Their plighted tows again were murmured deep, 
 But neither sighed — they had no tears to weep — 
 The mighty love that stirred within each thought 
 Was now more kind and tender, softer wrought : 
 The Past was like a vision from the sky 
 Arrayed in beauty, but to fade and die — 
 The Present ! oh, what hand could fill the space, 
 What hues the picture, in that holy place ! 
 
 iNo words were said, as from their knees they rose 
 And bared their bosoms to their cruel foes ; 
 One long embrace was given — the last on earth — 
 For, in that moment, shouts of savage mirth 
 Rang full upon their ear — the death hour comes 
 Drawing each sigh with furious rattling drums; 
 The doors give way — the vault is filled with light 
 Where stand the fated pair contest to sight, 
 Pale as the sculptured marble, yet as calm 
 As those who wait the martyr's glorious palm. 
 
 The stunning crash of arms — the fatal shot 
 That wings destruction to the destined spot ! 
 
IRELAND. 79 
 
 Young ****** ? with his bloody arm, had clasped 
 
 The angel of his love, who fondly gasped 
 
 Her last farewell upon his manly heart, 
 
 In death united, never more to part — 
 
 Then, spurning earth, where freedom was denied, 
 
 Their spirits rose, as morn's deep blushes dyed 
 
 The clouds, gilding her chariots rich with twisted 
 
 gold, 
 Which upward o'er the hills of glory rolled, 
 To bear the neophytes of bliss above, 
 Where swells the fountain of immortal love. 
 
 
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