Billeder på siden
PDF
ePub

Ah, well may we call her, like thee, 'the Forsaken,'
Her boldest are vanquished, her proudest are slaves;
And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken,
Have breathings as sad as the wind over graves!

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance-yet came there the morrow,
That shines out at last on the longest dark night,
When the sceptre that smote thee with slavery and sorrow
Was shivered at once, like a reed, in thy sight.

When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City
Had brimmed full of bitterness, drenched her own lips,
And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity,
The howl in her halls and the cry from her ships.

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust,

And- -a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to cover-
The Lady of Kingdoms lay low in the dust.

DRINK OF THIS CUP.

DRINK of this cup--you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality-
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Would you forget the dark world we are in.

Only taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it;

But would you rise above earth, till akin

To immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it. Send round the cup-for oh! there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortalityTalk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen, Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

Never was philtre formed with such power

To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing!
Its magic began, when, in Autumn's rich hour,

As a harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing.
There having by Nature's enchantment been filled
With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather,
This wonderful juice from its core was distilled,

To enliven such hearts as are here brought together!
Then drink of the cup-you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality-
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

And though, perhaps-but breathe it to no one-
Like cauldrons the witch brews at midnight so awful,
In secret this philtre was first taught to flow on,
Yet-'tisn't less potent for being unlawful.

What though it may taste of the smoke of that flame
Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden?
Fill up there's a fire in some hearts I could name,

Which may work to its charm, though now lawless and hidden.
So drink of the cup-for oh! there's a spell in

Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality-
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen,
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

Down in the valley come meet me to-night,
And I'll tell you your fortune truly
As ever 'twas told, by the new moon's light,
To young maidens shining as newly.

But, for the world, let no one be nigh,

Lest haply the stars should deceive me;
These secrets between you and me and the sky
Should never go farther, believe me.

If at that hour the heavens be not dim,
My science shall call up before you
A male apparition-the image of him
Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.

Then to the phantom be thou but kind,
And round you so fondly he'll hover;
You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find
'Twixt him and a true living lover.

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight,
He'll kneel with a warmth of emotion-
An ardour, of which such an innocent sprite
You'd scarcely believe had a notion.

What other thoughts and events may arise,
As in Destiny's book I've not seen them,
Must only be left to the stars and your eyes
To settle ere morning between them.

OH, YE DEAD!

On, ye dead! oh, ye dead! whom we know by the light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live, Why leave you thus your graves.

In far-off fields and waves.

Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,
To haunt this spot, where all

Those eyes that wept your fall,

And the hearts that bewailed you, like your own, lie dead!

It is true-it is true-we are shadows cold and wan;
It is true-it is true-all the friends we loved are gone.
But, oh! thus even in death,

So sweet is still the breath

Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we wandered c'er,
That, ere condemned we go

To freeze mid Hecla's' snow,

We would taste it awhile, and dream we live once more

O'DONOGHUE'S MISTRESS.2

Of all the fair months, that round the sun
In light-linked dance their circles run,

Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me!
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, sweet May, returns to me.

Of all the smooth lakes, where daylight leaves
His lingering smile on golden eves,

Fair lake, fair lake, thou'rt dear to me;
For when the last April sun grows dim,

Thy Naiads prepare his steed for him

Who dwells, who dwells, bright lake, in thee.

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore
Young pluméd chiefs on sea or shore,

White steed, white steed, most joy to thee,
Who still, with the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring,
Proud steed, proud steed, my love to me.

While white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launched, thy long mane3 curls,
Fair steed, fair steed, as white and free;

1 Paul Zeland mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.

2 The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donoghue and his white horse may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of May-day gliding over the lake on his favourite

white horse, to the sound of sweet, unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path.

Among other stories connected with this Legend of the Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a tit of insanity, on a Maymorning threw herself into the lake.

3 The boatmen of Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, O'Donoghue's white horses.

[blocks in formation]

Or, as some blighted laurel waves
Íts branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected graves
Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot!

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

THE dawning of morn, the day-light's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking
Of thee, thee, only thee.

When friends are met, and goblets crowned,
And smiles are near that once enchanted,
Unreached by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee

Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit, once, is now forsaken

For thee, thee, only thee.

Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To the ocean hurries-resting never-
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thee.

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet, when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.

Like spells that nought on earth can break,
Till lips that know the charm have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee.

SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT?

SHALL the harp then be silent when he, who first gave
To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?
Shall a minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave,

Where the first, where the last of her patriots lies ??

No-faint though the death-song may fall from his lips,
Though his harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crossed,
Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse,

And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost??

1 The celebrated Irish orator and patriot, Grattan.

It is only these two first verses that are either fitted or intended to be sung.

« ForrigeFortsæt »