Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit
The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit,
With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me,
Did your mantle of song fling its radiance round me,
Still, still in those wilds might young Liberty rally,
And send her strong shout over mountain and valley;
The star of the west might yet rise in its glory,
And the land that was darkest, be brightest in story.
I too shall be gone;-but my name shall be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken;
Some Minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming,
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean;
Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river,
O'er the heart, and the harp, that are sleeping for ever.
LXIX. SIR TURLOUGH, OR THE CHURCH-YARD BRIDE.-W. Carleton. THE bride she bound her golden hair
And her step was light as the breezy air
When it bends the morning flowers so fair,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
And oh, but her eyes they danced so bright,
As she longed for the dawn of to-morrow's light,
Her bridal vows of lowe to plight.
The bridegroom is come with youthful brow,
To receive from his Eva her virgin vow;
Why tarries the bride of my bosom now?"
A cry! a cry!-'twas her maidens spoke,
"Your bride is asleep-she has not awoke;
And the sleep she sleeps will never be broke."
Sir Turlough sank down with a heavy moan,
And his cheek became like the marble stone-
"Oh, the pulse of my heart is for ever gone!"
The keen is loud, it comes again,
And rises sad from the funeral train,
As in sorrow it winds along the plain.
And oh, but the plumes of white were fair,
When they fluttered all mournful in the air,
As rose the hymn of the requiem prayer.
There is a voice that but one can hear,
And it softly pours, from behind the bier,
Its note of death on Sir Turlough's ear.
The keen is loud, but that voice is low,
And it sings its song of sorrow slow,
And names young Turlough's name with woe.
Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said,
And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed,
The fairest corpse among the dead.
The wreaths of virgin-white are laid,
By virgin hands, o'er the spotless maid;
And the flowers are strewn, but they soon will fade.
"Oh! go not yet-not yet away,
Let us feel that life is near our clay,"
The long-departed seem to say.
But the tramp and the voices of life are gone,
And beneath each cold forgotten stone,
The mouldering dead sleep all alone.
But who is he that lingereth yet?
The fresh green sod with his tears is wet,
And his heart in the bridal grave is set.
Oh, who but Sir Turlough, the young and brave,
Should bend him o'er that bridal grave,
And to his death-bound Eva rave?
"Weep not-weep not:" said a lady fair,
"Should youth and valour thus despair,
And pour their vows to the empty air?"
There's charmed music upon her tongue,
Such beauty-bright, and warm, and young-
Was never seen the maids among.
A laughing light, a tender grace,
Sparkled in beauty around her face,
That grief from mortal heart might chase.
"The maid for whom thy salt tears fall,
Thy grief or love can ne'er recal;
She rests beneath that grassy pall.
"My heart it strangely cleaves to thee,
And now that thy plighted love is free,
Give its unbroken pledge to me."
The charm is strong upon Turlough's eye,
His faithless tears are already dry,
And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh.
"To thee," the charmèd chief replied,
"I pledge that love o'er my buried bride;
Oh! come, and in Turlough's hall abide."
Again the funeral voice came o'er
The passing breeze, as it wailed before,
And streams of mournful music bore.
"If I to thy youthful heart am dear,
One month from hence thou wilt meet me here,
Where lay thy bridal, Eva's bier."
He pressed her lips as the words were spoken,
And his banshee's wail-now far and broken-
Murmured "Death," as he gave the token.
"Adieu! adieu!" said this lady bright,
And she slowly passed like a thing of light,
Or a morning cloud, from Sir Turlough's sight.
Now Sir Turlough has death in every vein,
And there's fear and grief o'er his wide domain,
And gold for those who will calm his brain.
"Come, haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride,
Sir Turlough the brave, Green Truagha's pride,
Has pledged his love to the church-yard bride."
The leech groaned loud, "Come tell me this,
By all thy hopes of weal and bliss,
Has Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss?”
"The banshee's cry is loud and long,
At eve she weeps her funeral song,
And it floats on the twilight breeze along."
"Then the fatal kiss is given;-the last
Of Turlough's race and name is past,
His doom is sealed, his die is cast."
"Leech, say not that thy skill is vain;
Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain,
And half his lands thou shalt retain.”
The leech has failed, and the hoary priest
With pious shrift his soul released,
And the smoke is high of his funeral feast.
The minstrels now are assembled all;
And the songs of praise, in Sir Turlough's hall,
To the sorrowing harp's dark music fall.
And there are trophy, banner, and plume;
And the pomp of death, with its darkest gloom,
O'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb.
The month is closed, and Green Truagha's pride,
Killeevy, O Killeevy!
Is married to Death-and, side by side,
He slumbers now with his church-yard bride,
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy.
LXX. THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.-Samuel Ferguson. COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged-'tis at a white heat
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased-though on the forge's brow
The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round; All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands only bareSome rest upon their sledges here, some work the windlass there.
The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound heaves below,
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every throe: It rises, roars, rends all outright-0, Vulcan, what a glow! 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright-the high sun shines not so!
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery fearful show; The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe: As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing-monster slow
Sinks on the anvil-all about the faces fiery grow.
"Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out-leap out;" bang, bang the sledges go;
Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low-
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;
The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cinders strow
The ground around: at every bound the sweltering fountains
flow,
And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant "Ho!"
Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!
Let's forge a goodly anchor-a bower thick and broad;
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode,
And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road—
The low reef roaring on her lee-the roll of ocean poured
From stem to stern, sea after sea; the mainmast by the board;
The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the
chains!
But courage still, brave mariners-the bower yet remains! And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch skyhigh;
Then moves his head, as though he said, "Fear nothing-here am I."
Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time;
Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime.
But while you sling your sledges, sing-and let the burden be,
"The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we!"
Strike in, strike in-the sparks begin to dull their rustling red;
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped.
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array,
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy couch of clay;
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry craftsmen here,
For the "Yeo-heave-o'!" and the " Heave-away!" and the
sighing seaman's cheer;
When, weighing slow, at eve they go-far, far from love and home;
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam.
In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last;
A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast.
O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me,
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green
sea!
O deep Sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou?
The hoary-monster's palaces! Methinks what joy 't were now
To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales,
And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath their scourging
tails!
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea-unicorn,
And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn;
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn;
And for the ghastly-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to scorn;
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Norwegian isles
He lies, a lubber-anchorage for sudden-shallowed miles;
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